


~ Magnificat of the Damned: Book II.  Resurrection ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Magnificat of the Damned [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Prince verse, M/M, Slash, Threesome - M/M/M, Vanimórë - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 58
Words: 233,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~ At the end of the Third Age, Glorfindel and Vanimórë, son of Sauron, are the supreme Powers on Arda, having passed through Fos Almir, the Bath of Flame.<br/>~~~<br/>The mighty dead have returned, and Glorfindel leads the Noldor to a haven in the east of Middle-earth, which they call their New Cuiviénen. Fëanor, released from the Void, will rule there as High King.<br/>~~~<br/>But the ancient loves, hates and feuds of the Noldor have not dimmed or been forgotten with the ages, and their new life becomes a tinder-box of passion, pride and power. Ancient dooms and betrayals arise, and both new and ancient notes of the Great Music are played across the Fourth Age of Arda.<br/>~~~<br/>Fëanor felt his sons' arms restraining him, heard their voices, but his eyes remained locked on those of Námo.</p>
<p>“Didst thou truly believe – any of you – that thou couldst judge me?” He burned fire back at their stainless chill and then, scornfully, he laughed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~ Rebirth of Fire ~

 

 

 

_Excerpt from From Dark Prince: book one, chapter 73._

 

**The Beginning**

 

~~~

 

~ They were naked as newborns, with a look of brightness as if they had been scoured by flame, and they _were_ the flame, the fierceness which had been taken away, leaving Valinor to dream in cool pallor. Some had made an Oath they could not fulfil, some had knowingly broken the Laws of the Valar and the unspoken ones of their own people.

Glorfindel named them. His voice brought their heads around, their brilliant eyes to his. He saw the horror of Night behind their shock, and his face hardened at the thought of their punishment: Ages in the Void, unable to touch another soul, to feel, mocked and taunted by spirits of hate.

Fëanor, Fingolfin, Ecthelion, Fingon, Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod Amras, Gil-galad, and there were others whom he had not known had doomed themselves and some sought out the faces of their lovers and moved toward them.

The Valar were silent, some had stood aside and there was pity and regret in their faces. Glorfindel saw Ecthelion make one movement toward him and then stop, his eyes intent. Fëanor had not looked away from him, or what he held in his hand.

"Three Ages of the World have passed and the shadows grown long since thou didst die, Fëanor," Glorfindel said and then he paused, and saw that he knew, that he had been shown the death and the blood, the grief and despair.

"Yes, Laurëfindë. I know what has been." A brief flash of pain and guilt crossed Fëanor's face, and Glorfindel heard his thoughts.  
 _I doomed my sons to death, I doomed my people, I betrayed those who loved me._  
Aloud he said: "Morgoth tormented me in Darkness, telling me of my sons, of others, of their deaths, the battles lost, the doom wrought to its bitterest ending. He could not touch me, but his mind sought to break mine. And we could not touch in the Void."

"Thou didst touch us, we felt thee, the only light there was, but we could not reach thee."

Fëanor turned then as Maedhros walked into his arms and buried his face in the glassy black hair; and that broke the long, frozen moment. His sons came to him to hold him, one another, feeling reality, the wonder of touch and sight and sound. They had clung to their memories against the dissolution of their souls, as a bastion against the mockery of Morgoth and those who inhabited the Void.

"What did he do to thee long ago?"

Glorfindel felt Ecthelion beside him. Their eyes met with love, ancient friendship, but the unspoken things were there. They had always been there.

"Does it matter? Did we not burn?"

"After he touched thee."

"And now – " He felt molten gold running in his veins, Arda opening like a flower under his eyes with the future that Eru had shown him. "There is a place for the Exiles, but it is not here."

"In Endor?" Ecthelion's eyes held his.

"Yes, a place prepared for us. Once it was Cuiviénen and though the lands are changed it is still there, the inland sea, the Wild Wood, the Mountains. We can live as we desire, with the Laws we make ourselves."

"What art thou?"

"I am still Glorfindel." There was an ocean within him, it was Arda, it was Power, but he knew he could take as much or as little as he desired. It had overwhelmed him in Fos Almir, now he stood apart from it and yet was of it.

"That is not all thou art."

"No." He turned his head then.

Maglor was the only one of Fëanor's son's who had not moved. He was watching with an ardent yearning which melded with shame and shock. Tindómion was close by him, seemingly struck to stone.

"Father."

"Father."  
The two voices spoke at once, the same forged gold, the same longing. Glorfindel walked across to them, laid a hand on Maglor's shoulder, turned him.

" _Adar?_ " Tindómion's face was a battleground of memories, but then he moved, as if he would not risk this moment slipping from him, and they came together as all of that blood did, in fierce, passionate love. And Fëanor was suddenly there, his arms about both of them, his eyes closed as he leaned his brow against Maglor's head.

And Maglor wept.

"Legolas."

Glorfindel's voice brought the prince's eyes to his. Ecthelion was watching curiously.

"This is Legolas, prince of the realm of Eryn Lasgalen," He laid his hand on the straight back and saw Ecthelion sound the depths of his action.

"Glorfindel..." Legolas said slowly, "What — happened?"

~~~

**The Power and the Passion.**

****

**Chapter One.**

****  
_The Rebirth of Fire_  


They stood on the gem-dusted beaches of Aman. Beyond them, the furious, helpless ranks of the Valar watched. Some of the Ainur stood aside, those who had loved the Elves: Ulmo, Ossë the Maia, once temped by Melkor, Irmo, in whose gardens the Elves sought healing dream, his spouse, Estë the gentle, Melian, whom had loved an Elf and loved him still, borne a daughter, and lost her to mortality. Behind them, streaming from Tirion, came the Noldor who had remained in Aman.

"Yes, _Laurëfindë,_ " Legolas' question was echoed by a voice resonant and fierce as the fire that burned in his eyes, in the Silmaril that Glorfindel held. "What _did_ happen?"

Glorfindel opened his mind to those who stood there, allowed them to see a flow of vivid images, and they were silent, absorbing, seeing at the last, the son of Sauron hand the Silmaril to Glorfindel, who walked into Fos Almir, the Bath of Flame.

Without a word Fëanor stepped past Glorfindel and strode toward the watching Valar. They did not move, eyes high and cold as frost-rimed glass. He stopped before Námo, whom had proclaimed the Doom of the Noldor, the Doom which Fëanor had both wrought and defied – and his blow caught the Doomsman of the Valar straight across his jaw.

Fingolfin had wounded Morgoth. Mandos certainly felt this. His head snapped to one side, and even as rage leapt into his timeless eyes, Fëanor struck him again, then felt himself being dragged back as power burned against his skin, an impulse to destroy him which was as suddenly checked as Glorfindel spoke.  
" It is not the will of _our_ father, Ilúvatar, that thou touch Fëanor, not he nor any. The souls within the Timeless Halls will come forth. Thou wilt no longer be the weigher of the _worth_ of the Elves _fëar,_ Námo. But because there are some who need time to weigh their _own_ souls and lives, Lord Irmo and Lady Estë shall watch over them. This the One wills."

Frustrated wrath and unbelief beat in waves from the Vala. Fëanor felt the arms about him, sensed his sons and heard their voices, but his eyes remained locked on those of Námo.

"What made any of thee believe you could judge _me?_ " He burned fire back at their stainless chill, and then, scornfully, he laughed.

"Vanimórë Gorthaurion spoke truly," Glorfindel said striving to control his own emotions, sensing how easy it would be to hurt, to destroy with the powers now settled in his being. "We were as childrens' toys to thee, yet more useful. We learned from thee and surpassed thee. Morgoth sought to destroy us and thou didst seek to control us. Now thou shalt have no power over us, no, not even over those who choose to remain here. And thou, Manwë – yes, _you,_ who came to claim the soul of our last High King who died fighting Morgoth's greatest servant, who were deaf to pleading, who felt no mercy, who relished in seeing the one who loved him _suffer...!_ " His jaw clenched and his hand flashed out, in a backhanded slap which carried all his rage behind it. Blood burst from Manwë's mouth, and he stumbled, looking now, not like a power, but diminished, something that had clothed itself in the form of an Elf and grown old and small within it.

Glorfindel turned away, dismissing all save those who followed him. Golden light haloed him in a glorious nimbus, and even as he walked away, the Valar seemed to fade, shrinking behind him.

"Is that all thou wilt do?" Fëanor felt the arms that restrained him relax and withdraw.

"It is not in my province to punish them. They grow weary of the world, and chose their isolation long ago. Here they will remain."

"And we?" Fëanor wrung his hand and Glorfindel lifted his brows with a touch of amusement.  
"Didst thou hurt thy hand on Námo's face?"

For a moment Fëanor looked at him, and then laughed again, and this time, there was rich amusement in the sound.  
"It has," he admitted, "been a long time coming." His eyes held private memories. They moved to the wood-Elf who stood close by and the speculation deepened, sparkled with interest and an expression Glorfindel found so familiar that he felt the Ages since Fëanor's death had never passed.

"Legolas Thranduilion," he said, formally, as he placed an arm about his lover. "This is Fëanor Finwion."

It broke the tension and before Fëanor was surrounded again by his sons, Glorfindel said, "There is a place for us, we will go to Tol Eressëa and thence to New Cuiviénen."

"The One has spoken to me," Ulmo said, shining with all the glints and colors of the seas. "We will go before thee, Ossë and I, they will bring ships hither."

Glorfindel bowed before the Lord of Waters. "My thanks, lord, thou wert ever a friend to the Elves."

"Some were ever thy friends and advocates, Lord of the Light. But we believed that Manwë and Námo spoke for our Father. And perhaps we allowed ourselves to forget that the Firstborn were His children, not ours."

And as he left the Noldor of Tirion began to walk down onto the gleaming beach, to greet those long sundered from them.

~~~

Fëanor looked at Maglor, whom was speaking to Tindómion, a true stamped image of him, save for that profligate bronze hair. He saw the ancient loneliness which had imposed isolation upon him, this one who had not died, not been thrown into Night. Maglor bore the mark of Ages of grief and madness, suffering which had ground itself into the back of his eyes. His son reflected that pain. He also had lost that which he had loved.

Fëanor had refused to permit the Night to devour his soul and helpless within it, he became truly what he was: Spirit of Fire, conflagrant in defiance. He had tried to reach out through the dark which was more than darkness. At times he had touched those he loved. One after another their lives ended in pain, in blood, save for Maglor, wandering in memory and grief. But oh, they had burned, and he had felt a terrible pride for every one of them.

Some-one stepped into his line of vision, the eyes a wild blue-silver, meeting his.

_A terrible pride...My brother. Valiant and beautiful, and mad as I at the end. Yes, I saw thee, Nolofinwë. I was with thee when Morgoth dared to end thy life._  
  
A bad death, just as Fingon's had been, as Gil-galad's.  
  
Their gazes locked, harder than a magnet to metal. Fëanor thought to draw Fingolfin to him as he ever had, with just a look. He knew they were watched. It did not matter. But his heart, it seemed, would not wait. Without knowing how it had come about, he found himself walking, as Fingolfin was, faster, faster. Then with a clash, they were in one another's arms. And they were witnessed

~~~

"Tindómion..." Maglor ran his fingers over the high cheekbone, wet with tears, a face so like his own, so like his father's. "How can I ask forgiveness?"

"My mother forgave thee. And I...I tried to hate thee, all my life, yet I felt thee and dreamed thy dreams until I knew all thy life."

"I heard thee. Harp-song out of the night. How could she have lived to bear thee?"

"She loved thee, and she understood." Tindómion's thoughts reached toward Middle-earth, to his mother waiting as she had waited so long. "It was all she wanted, for me to find thee. To love thee."

"I engendered thee in rape, I am no fit person to have fathered thee nor any-one !" Maglor bowed his head, and a shudder passed through him, through his sons hands.

" _Adar,_ I dreamed thee. I _was thee !_ I know the madness within thee, for I too have felt it. How can I help but love thee? _I am thy son !_ "

Maglor closed his eyes. A spasm of pain shook his face. He whispered, "Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion."  
His arms locked about his son and enfolded him dearly, possessively, and with love.

A gull cried overhead and Maglor opened his eyes, and saw some-one watching them, the sea wind whipping his hair across his naked body. The beach was filled with Elves now. Voices wove in and out of melody and tears. The eyes, Fingolfin's eyes, Fingon's eyes, were intent and radiant and suddenly Maglor heard again the words of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, in a tavern room, beside a northern lake. It might have been an Age ago.  
 _"I saw thy son. After the bitter victory I heard the voice of a Power condemn Gil-galad's soul to the Void. Because he loved another male. Because he loved thy son."_

Elves were bringing Gil-galad a cloak, a cup of wine, gathering around him. He turned his head, greeted them, embraced, and yet his eyes returned to Tindómion.

Maglor said, softly: "Gil."

His son tensed. Very slowly, he turned.

The air contracted, locking he and Gil-galad within their own world. He stood motionless as the sigh of the waves, the cry of gulls, the voices were suddenly gone. It had been so long since he had last seen that most beloved face, and then it had been blanched with the pallor of death and he had been mad, mad as his father...

He did not feel himself move. Cautiously, almost reverently, his fingers cupped the high cheekbones, looked into the eyes. And even now, across the aching schism of the years, he felt the impact as he had when he had walked into the great hall in Lindon to present himself to the last High King of the Elves on Middle-earth.

The flesh was warm under his fingers, and he heard himself whispering, "Gil...Gil..." Their heartbeats melded, and they sank down onto the sand, holding fast.

Glorfindel turned and laid a hand upon Legolas back, walking up the beach, each whisper of sand revealing glints of nacre, pearl, and jet. The wood-Elf's eyes were wide and Glorfindel slanted him a reassuring smile.

The sands now had the look of a vast encampment, and for a moment he gazed over them before speaking. His voice was pitched low, but it carried like a golden trump and all voices ceased, all heads turned.

"Noldor of Aman, the One has given us a land in Endor, hidden, beautiful, for those who would come." He encompassed the cold glory of Valinor with a sweeping gesture. Gold light flamed through his hair, limned him in brightness. "The shape of the world has changed, but still a great lake shines under the stars and ancient forests cloak the Orocarni. There we will make our own Laws and none need fear the dark of the Void. Ilúvatar has spoken. We are _his_ children and the Valar have no power over our fate and doom. He gives us back our lives, and the lands where we woke. Wilt thou come?"

The murmurs grew from the quiet hush of the waves fretting the sand, become another wave of strength and passion.  
"Yes!" Cried the Noldor. "Yes!"

Fëanor, a long cloak settled over his shoulders, walked toward Glorfindel, his father and half-brother each side of him. He already looked like a king.  
He always had looked like a king.

"And thou wilt rule us, Laurëfindë?"

"No, Fëanáro," Glorfindel said. "Thou shalt." ~

~~~

 


	2. ~ The Second Return Of The Noldor ~

  
~ Glorfindel knew, and perhaps both his eldest sons knew that Finwë would not leave Aman. The first High King of the Noldor spoke to those three and no-one else, and to Glorfindel alone he said that Fëanor was of him, and yet with his birth something had come into the world which was unique and of itself, a new flame whose potency had lit other fires. He was _Fëanor,_ passion and peril now cloaked again in flesh. Even Finwë had not been able to resist the will and the flame that blazed there, Fëanor would never consent to be ruled now, not even by his father. He had planned to leave Valinor long before the theft of the Silmarils, to found realms in the Outer Lands.

There were some open doubts about his kingship, but Glorfindel said:  
"Eru has given this vision to me. Fëanor shall be High King of the Noldor in Ennorath."  
After his words, there were not many objections, at least no-one voiced any. Not yet. They would, Glorfindel knew, oh, they would, but now, _now_ they were reeling with freedom. It would not last, of course, and he realized, with a wry inner smile, that the Noldor saw him as the counterbalance to Fëanor, and that would be an unenviable position to occupy. But it was not for him to be both King and Vala; his duty was to protect the Elves of Middle-earth, allow them to live free in the world. He had been shown that they had been sung into the Great Music for precisely that purpose, to enrich and beautify, whether wild Avari in distant forests, or the Noldor in their new haven. They were bound and wound inextricably into Arda. And there Glorfindel did foresee problems, but no Power, not him, nor the Ainur who were the offspring of Eru's mind, could see the One's vast, time-spanning plan of creation.

~~~

The ships came across the sea like gulls, white and graceful, sails cupping the wind. The Noldor of Tol Eressëa, who had come there after the War of Wrath and the ages since, weary and wounded by Middle-earth, waded through the shallow waters with a light on their faces like the rising of the sun.

In the days which followed, the ships were loaded with cargo. The backdrop of many voices was constant, ringing out or softly murmuring as they wove their own threads – many broken and bloodied – into the tapestries of their lives. The Valar had vanished to take council together, save those few who came to Glorfindel and spoke with him.

Not all of the Noldor would leave Aman. Finarfin and his people remained in Tirion, as would Finwë,and there were some who did not come forth to greet the reborn.  
Glorfindel, as he walked the white ways of the city where, in the Light of the Trees, he had first been born thought, _The circle has been joined at last._ A ring forged of death and doom, life and hope. No words could encompass all that had passed.

"It is both like and unlike I imagined," Legolas said, as they came from Glorfindel's now empty mansion. "Beautiful, yes, but like a gem locked within a casket, buried in snow."

"Once it was lit by fire, and then the fire went out," Glorfindel replied. It was evening, and the vast shadows cast by Taniquetil and the Pelori covered Valinor in deep gloom. "The Mountains of Defense," he murmured. "The Valar lavished their love and all their care on Aman, and raised the Pelori sheer. They did not desire to battle Morgoth until a blood-price had been paid both by Elves and Men. And many paid that price, both the innocent and the guilty." His face was stern, pitiless, and then as he looked at Legolas, the expression melted as if charmed away. He smiled and a gleam of pure wickedness entered his eyes. With a quick thrust, he pushed the prince against a marble wall and kissed him, long, sensuously. He laughed as he drew back, and whispered, "This was once wrong here. I am finding it _most_ satisfying, flaunting this, knowing full well the Valar can do nothing."

From far away, yet close as his own mind, came the amused laughter of one who also appreciated this very much.

_Irresistible, no?_

Glorfindel mentally saluted before he slipped his hand about Legolas' hip, who was smiling, and whose eyes gleamed with desire. Together they walked to the horses that waited at the gates.

"Thou art not afraid of me?" he asked. "Of this power?"

The eyes of all those who saw him held ether frank curiosity or a tinge of fear. Curufin, in the presence of his father, Celegorm, Amrod and Amras, had demanded why _he_ had been chosen. It bordered on rudeness and Glorfindel thought exasperatedly that whatever flaws the Fëanorions possessed, cowardice was not one of them. And too, he was known to them, he was Elda as they were.  
To his surprise it had been Legolas, the blood rushing beautifully into his cheeks who had answered, standing tall and with uptilted chin before those whose names resounded in legend with doom and violence.

"Perhaps, my lords," he had said clearly. "Those of you who died long ago, should first think upon Lord Glorfindel's history. He gave his life to save the refugees of Gondolin, allowing Eärendil to come to Valinor. He returned to Ennorath because he had loved it, loved both the Elves and Men who dwelt there. He fought evil for thousands of years. He knows our sorrows better than any, he has seen three Ages of them. Whom else would Eru choose?"

Fëanor, who had interestingly not questioned Glorfindel's apotheosis, looked at Legolas with those vivid, unearthly eyes for a long moment, then flung up a hand in an arrogant gesture which forestalled any further words.  
"Thou art right, Prince Laiqualassë," he spoke in Quenya, having never heard the Sindarin tongue of the hither shores before now. "I would not debate the choice of the One." And he had inclined his head and laid a hand on his breast, with a bow to the wood-Elf which should have pleased Glorfindel, but did not. This was, after all, Fëanor.  
He saw Tindómion nearby, and his smile was wickedly delighted. Already the factions were forming, as they had in Tirion and in Beleriand. Death had not altered the dynamics between the Noldor, which had less to do with hate or dislike than competitiveness.

Legolas said now, answering his question: "No more so than usual."

His voice was so pensive that Glorfindel paused and looked sharply at him, to meet a glance suspiciously innocent, laughter brimming in the bright eyes. Then Legolas smiled and Glorfindel caught him hard, with another very public, very thorough kiss.

"I could not be what I am without being Glorfindel. I have not changed," he murmured, when they were both flushed and roused and oblivious of the glances they had gathered.

"I know you have not changed," Legolas murmured provocatively. "I would not wish you to."

It had given Glorfindel pause, in his lovemaking, wondering if the power would spill over into that. He reached for that other presence so far away and so close.

 _I do not know,_ Vanimórë admitted. _I have not bedded any-one since it happened._

_Elgalad?_

_I cannot. I am afraid to take him._

Glorfindel could not help. He had loved Legolas before his changing, and would never cause him harm. He did not think Vanimórë would hurt Elgalad, but he understood the fear. Elgalad had died at Vanimórë's hands, albeit by dreadful accident, and now Glorfindel saw deeper, saw the self-hate within Sauron's son, something he had lived with almost since his birth. He was afraid to stain Elgalad. Glorfindel's mind touched Vanimórë's in sympathy and the response was insouciant, a shrugged shoulder.

"Come," Glorfindel said, seeing his prince gazing at him with a lifted brow. "Before I take thee here and now on the street !"

~~~

The Vala whom would now be keeper of the Timeless Halls greeted Tindómion in his gardens, sweet with the scent of cedar, where the red poppies of Fumellar breathed forth sleep, and the waters held the stars in their cool depths.

This was the place where those came who needed deep healing, and the one who came had suffered greviously on Middle-earth. She did not look as Tindómion had seen her last, drained of vitality, eyes scarred by violence and pain. When she smiled in welcome and astonishment she was again the Celebrian whom had called him, "My knight," and he went down on one knee to her as if she were a queen.

"My lord Lórien has told me what has come to pass," she took his hands and he rose and said, "My Lady, I wish Elrond were here."

"He will come."

"Wilt thou not return with us?"

"Not yet," Celebrian said after a moment. "Perhaps one day."

"Then shall I carry a message to him?"

"There is naught I can tell him that he does not already know, Istelion. But there is much _I_ do not know. Come, walk with me." She slipped her arm through his. "Middle-earth will never be cleansed of evil, and memories are sharper than a blade for us, you know this."

"I know it indeed." If he were to have loved any woman it would have been Celebrian. He _had_ loved her, and like her own sons would ever feel guilt that he had not been one of those who escorted her on her journey to Lothlórien. Later, they learned that great companies of orcs had been secretly massing to bar the passes into Eriador. Yet secretive as they tried to be, the Great Eagles had espied movement north about the springs of Mitheithel, and words had come from Thranduil of orcs in the skirts of the Ered Mithrim. Concerned that they were making their way to Mount Gundabad, one of their ancient holds, Elrond had sent out his sons, with Glorfindel and Tindómion and they had traveled with some of the Dúnedain. The Redhorn Pass had seemed quiet and Celebrian had set forth to Lothlórien and been ambushed by orcs.

Elrond had done all he could. His wife had healed in body, but not in soul. At night sometimes they heard her screaming. It drove Elladan and Elrohir out to hunt all, any orcs with savage grief and hate. And they killed enough, but it did not assuage the horror of Celebrian's rape. She scarcely spoke. Once, on a summer night with the air full of the scent of honeysuckle, she sat in the garden, fragile as broken lily, and Tindómion had played for her. A tiny sound had brought his head up and he had seen tears pouring silently from her eyes. He had known then that she could never find healing in Middle-earth. After she left, Imladris had mourned, the waterfalls seemed to weep.

Now he told her what he could, although there were some things that only Elrond should speak of. When he learned of Arwen's choice of mortality, she became still, her grey eyes wide as if looking beyond the gardens, beyond Valinor. She whispered, "My children have their own lives. We always knew this, Elrond and I. I would not sway them, even if I could. Yet it is so hard !"

Later, as they parted, she said, "I will wait for him," and, "We will meet again, Istelion."

He kissed her cheek and left her standing, tall and lovely as a rose wrought in silver. She would not, he thought, have very long to wait for her husband.

***

It was a very different departure for the Noldor this time. Many thought back to the kinslaying of Alqualondë, the theft of the Swan-ships, but these ships were offered freely and felt eager as they rode the swell of the ocean, sails booming under a west wind. Dolphins leaped in graceful curves about the bows of the vessels and at night the stars were huge and brilliant, and the sound of lyres and harps came over the dark waters. They were headed for Mithlond whence some would ride to Imladris.

It was a time to speak, but softly. They would be confined on these vessels for a far greater length of time when they embarked on the long voyage to the east of the world, and there was little room for quarrels and divisions on board ship. All of them knew this without being told, so they trod softly, spoke with courtesy or not at all. Their new lives would truly begin when they reached the place Glorfindel named New Ciuviénen.

Tindómion had felt a sense of unreality from the moment he had seen Vanimórë fighting with his father in Lindon. The events since then had shaken him as nothing had since the death of Gil-galad and now the world was changed and Gil-galad had come from the depths of Night. Yet the divide of an age had not been joined, and he did not know why. They had come together in love, and after a long moment of holding one another, knitting the ragged edges of their wound of separation, they had drawn back, only their eyes still clinging. Something invisible and solid as a pane of glass had slid between them again. It would take more than reunion to heal the long sorrow.  
Gil-galad had said nothing, his hand had risen to touch Tindómion's face, a faint smiled, half-puzzled, half-ironic had stirred his mouth as if he too felt this divide, knew that nothing was simple.

_Nothing is simple_

The sea-wind in his hair, Tindómion looked across to the great ship where Gil-galad stood with Fingolfin. He saw a glimpse of copper-bronze, for Maedhros was travelling on that vessel with Fingon.  
He raised his hand and over the plunge and skim of the ships which raced each other across the water, Gil-galad's eyes met his, and he too lifted his own hand as if they placed them together through the sluice of the wind.

His cloak and hair streaming, Maglor came to his side with two cups of hot wine. Tindómion took one with a nod of thanks. He had come to realize that if any-one understood him, it must be his father.

"We have been parted from those we loved, Istelion. It is not as simple as mending a broken vase." Maglor stood beside him at the rail and a smile passed between he and his elder brother who stood beside Fingon. There were two that had come together like magnet to metal, and it warmed him more than the wine to see it. Maedhros' years after Fingon's death had been agony to him, there were some pains to deep to touch, to share.

"Gorthaurion..." There was a hesitation on the name, an edge and difficulty to it which revealed Maglors unhealed wounds. Tindómion placed his free hand over his father's, where it rested on the polished wood. "He told me thou didst love Gil."

"I wish I had found thee before thy torment," Tindómion murmured.

"There is nothing left when the heart is gone, save memory," Maglor said, eyes opaque silver in the sunlight. "And something which kept me alive. Fear of losing even memory. I did not know where I was, _when_ I was. I wish thou hadst found me also, and released me from this life."

" _Father !_ "

"Wouldst thou not have slain me, Istelion?"

In the last days, Tindómion had been able to observe how deep, how truly passionate were the attachments between those of the line of Finwë; love, desire or hate, they felt with all of their souls. It was in every glance of fire-bright eyes, every movement, every nuance in the voice. He looked at his father, at the white, beautiful face, the sultry mouth and unearthly eyes, saw the pain which ran under as a river still runs under ice.

"I could not have, _adar._ " Their brows touched, and he felt the tenseness melt, for a moment, from Maglor's sinews.  
They sat down on a great coil of rope, cradling the winecups. Near the bow, Glorfindel was standing with Legolas, gold head turned to gold, and Maglor murmured, "There are some who are going to be disappointing in that coupling. He is forged of a fine metal, that one."

"Legolas has more than proved his worth in the great matters of this time and in Sauron's defeat," Tindómion replied quietly. "I also count him a friend. Their love is a very deep thing. And Glorfindel needs him. When he came back to Middle-earth, reborn, a hero and saw again the long ruin, it isolated him. It was a weight that he could not lift from his shoulders. He needed a deep and pure love, and Legolas gives that. He is not unlike Elgalad."

"I understand," Maglor said. "But my father wanted Glorfindel, and determined to have him, both as a lover and as a lieutenant." More complexities in the words, the guilt at having desired his own father. Having seen him now, felt that fire against his own flesh, Tindómion was unsurprised.

"Glorfindel always wondered whether he could have influenced him, had he gone with him."

"I do not know. He was fey with grief." Maglor paused, took a breath, a sip of wine. "I wonder if this was not all foreshadowed long ago, when he brought Glorfindel back from the fringes of death. Thou knowest of that?"

"Yes. Glorfindel said Fëanor changed him forever, that every-one touched by him or those of his blood were changed. And doomed."

"He let no-one wear the Silmarilli, no-one at all. Only Glorfindel that once. And I do not think it was because he feared punishment if Glorfindel died. Yes, we were all touched by him, all changed by him. But I was not thinking of Glorfindel alone."

Tindómion glanced across the deck to the third ship which made up the triad spearhead of the fleet, and which bore his grandsire. "Yes, I see. I hope it does not come to that. Glorfindel is possessive."

"So are all the Finwii." A smile came, tinged with all the chiaroscuro of ancient memories. "If it were not for my father, Glorfindel and Ecthelion would have known magnificent love. He smashed what might have been, uncaring in what he desired. I do not think he has changed. I am glad that Glorfindel found the love he needed."  
He fell into silence again, the silence of one who has been solitary for so long, then said, in an abrupt uprush of rage, "They knew where they were, their very souls were mocked. They were shown many things. But my father does not know of him, of Gorthaurion. My torture, yes, not the other." He looked straight ahead, his profile still as marble. Tindómion's fingers closed about his father's wrist. "It is between he and I."

"Why would he not be shown that?"

Maglor shook his head, then hissed savagely, "It was not in Sauron's plan was it? That I should be freed? Hells, I cannot think of those I love lost in the dark, bodiless spirits. Now they seek to live, for _fëa_ and _hröa_ to be one. And we who have not died, who lived with their loss, need our own time to blend our hearts with theirs again. I understand thee, Istelion, as I understand Gil-galad, both of thee have been apart too long for it to be easy. It is no different for me."

"I saw him and I wept, it is too great for me to encompass easily. The years, father...the endless years where I lived, fought, ate drank, even laughed, and yet there was a void within me."

"I know, I know." They turned to each other and embraced, and Maglor thought, _I never knew I had a son, and yet out of my own emptiness I reached out, and he heard me, felt me, lived the burden of my life and memories. I was so enwrapped in my own guilt and madness that I could not feel him, and I should have been with him in his uttermost grief. He should hate me. He should wish me dead, yet like all of our blood, he loves like a flame._ ~

  
~~~


	3. ~ We Are What We Were ~

  
~ They had been pared to the core, brutally vulnerable to the Power that sought to destroy that which was left: the awareness of whom and what they had been. They had been naked before memory, to whatever evil wished to visit upon them. There were tortures infinitely worse than those of the flesh, for even the strongest body would fail at last, giving release. The spirit had no escape and could not die.

And they had held, for what else was there but dissolution? All of them held through love and hate and bitterest pride.

Gil-galad felt his father's arms close about him.

There had been no words for a long moment, for this was the paradox: he still felt Fingon's death as a dagger of black iron in his soul. Memory was a living thing for the Elves. And he knew, as they drew apart to look at one another, that his father had been made to see his own death, just as he had been shown Fingon's, given to him on a slurry of malevolent laughter. In Eglarest he had screamed, as far away on a field of death, Gothmog had cleaved Fingon's skull with a black axe. He had not seen it though, not then. He had been spared that. Condemned to the Void, that vision had been served to him with malignant relish. Oh, it had been a valiant battle, until the whip snapped about Fingon's arms and he was helpless under the ember thundercloud of Gothmog. Yet the thing that shredded his soul, (for souls could weep) and still hurt so much, was that the body of his beautiful, gallant father had been trodden into the mire as if he were offal.  
He saw his own death reflected in the blue-silver of Fingon's eyes and they looked at one another, both of them kings, both of them dying with the taste of failure, the contempt of the Enemy in their mouths.

Then there was Maedhros, whom he had loved because, in the innocence of his youth, he had seen that his presence brought light to Fingon's face. All three had wept. There were more more tears than laughter, more sorrow than joy in these reunions.

Now, as he stood gazing to where Tindómion stood aboard the next vessel, he still felt deluged by the sensations of sight, sound, scent, the glorious reality of _life._

Tindómion appeared unchanged save for the depth of his eyes, the Ages stamping sadness into the silver. Their lives had been separated on the ashen flanks of Orodruin. Gil-galad had seen the gulf of those years, and not known how to cross it, yet his heart was unchanged and his body responded as it ever had, blood scorching, heart turning over.

"Thou knowest how it is to live without thy father and so do I." Maedhros' voice came from beside him. "When the mate of our soul is gone they take the better part of us with them. And he lived without thee for an Age. Give him time. We have that now." He put an arm about Gil-galad's shoulders and murmured: "He is the image of Maglor, as thou art of thy father."

"The thread between our houses. Nothing can break it, not even death."

 _How does one build a bridge over thousands of years of anguish and pride?_ he wondered.

"I wanted to find thee," Gil-galad said aloud, sorrow in him as deep as a well. "I sent a messenger."

"I know. I am sorry Gil, it was much too late for me. In truth I died when Fingon died."

~~~

"The Silmaril, Glorfindel."

He had been waiting for this, knowing it would come. The words were not couched as a question but presented to him as the edge of a sword. His eyes met Fëanor's unwinkingly and he said: "Not yet."

Something flashed over Fëanor's face and the blade was honed to a fine and dangerous point.  
"It is mine."

"No-one disputes that. It was recovered by Sauron's son and given to me, not to keep, but to light the Dark where thy souls were bound, to call thee forth." He went on, before Fëanor would speak again. "Listen to me; it will be returned to thee when thou hast proven thou lovest those of thy blood more than the work of thine hands! This the One wills."

The brilliant eyes blinked, as if surprised. Fëanor's lips tightened a moment.

"I will hold it for thee. It shall be locked away until the time comes."

"The One wills this?"

"Yes. I tell no falsehood. I know what is within the Silmarilli. Why did the jewels obsess thee so?" Glorfindel asked. "Because thine own spirit is within them ! The creator always puts something of himself into their creation. The fire in the Silmarilli, the light which makes them so perilous – is thine !"

Fëanor did not answer. He was thinking. People who saw only his wildness, remembered only what he had brought upon the Elves, often forgot how very, very clever he was.

"Thou wilt not deny me the sight of it." An order, that, not a request. Glorfindel found his hands clenching.

"No, I will not. But I hope that thou wilt make other wonders in New Cuiviénen, and find things that thou desirest more."

And that was a mistake.

"There are certainly things I desire." The glittering eyes warmed. His voice caressed. "I woke thee _Laurëfindë,_ I marked thee to come to this. We are what we are. We are what we _were._ "

"I do not dispute that." Glorfindel was more wary of Fëanor in this mood than in his passion or rage, but he forced himself to remember what he had been shown, to feel what his uncle had endured, as had all those condemned to the Everlasting Dark. He could not – must not – use power upon his own people. He had to control his temper.  
"And if I could live that time again, I would have gone with thee, and done all in my power to have thee return for the people of Fingolfin."

"Hindsight is a curse is it not?" Fëanor looked away, his gaze fixed upon something, some-one else, and then moved again. "I wonder if thou couldst have persuaded me? Tell me, what is the tale of the Teleri scion?"

Glorfindel looked around. Not far away, Legolas was speaking to Tindómion, but his look was conscious, aware of Fëanor's regard.

"He is the son of a king," he said hardly. "Why? Dost thou think that after thee I would want no other?"

"Thou didst not love me, Laurëfindë, nor Ektello."

"I loved Ecthelion, before thy lust smashed into our world! After, nothing was the same!"

"Now that veers perilously close to falsehood, for surely nothing can _smash_ love, not even death. And I know that to be true, I have been made to know it in the bitterest of ways."

Fëanor was always far too intelligent, thought Glorfindel.  
"Whatever lies in the past, Legolas Thranduilion is mine, as I am his." He permitted the warning to show through. "I remember when thou didst revile the Teleri. Some of thy sons were scornful enough of the Sindar of Beleriand when we came there. Why so pleasant now, Fëanor?" He knew.

"A flower is beautiful whether it grows in the gardens of Tirion or in the lands across the sea," Fëanor said. "And tell me, knowing what thou didst surely know: that the Valar would damn us for _unclean love,_ thou wert willing for thy lover to be cast into the Void?"

Glorfindel hissed through his teeth as he felt his anger rise. His love for the prince went deeper than the desire which had lit the torch within him. Two lives. So much sorrow. So much death: his own death, and those whom he had loved. Maglor's face at Lake Mithrim telling of Fëanor's death, the sun darkening in mourning when Fingolfin was slain, Fingon radiant and weary under the shadow of Gothmog, Ecthelion, the spike of his helm deep in Gothmog's breast falling with him into the deep fountain, the towers of Gondolin collapsing in thunder and dust, himself, blind and burned, dying in agony. Then the years after, the battles in Eregion, Ost-in-Edhil's walls stained red in the sunset, Elves and Men dying on Dagorlad, in Mordor, Gil-galad broken on the slopes of Orodruin, Tindómion, a wound of living anguish...  
Every death, every sorrow was branded in him so deep that he had hardly known his own outrage. It was tamped down under his skin, seething at the bottom of his mind. He had needed some-one untouched and loving, some-one raised far from the doom which had run like a vein through both his lives. And when he had found Legolas, it had been like a pure spring to drink from. No wonder Sauron's son needed Elgalad. No wonder. In his changing, in the conflagration of Fos Almir Glorfindel had seen all of Vanimórë's life. Both of them needed innocence, unconditional love, those things which were lost or warped by the Ages, by the grief the turning years brought. And now he knew the nature of the kinship between Legolas and Elgalad. It did not surprise him.

The famous, luminous eyes were still upon him, intent as a hunter. Glorfindel wondered if that was what Fëanor had seen in him, in Tirion, so long ago: innocence. Fëanor had no use for it, he would have deemed it without worth. He had always wanted to learn, to _know._ Innocence was impotent.

"What wouldst thou have me say? _Yes,_ I was selfish. Thou didst never deny thyself anything ! Some of us did ! I saw him and wanted him." He took a long, controlling breath. "The Silvan Elves, those who know not the Valar, did not heed those laws. They were after all, given only to the Eldar of Aman."

"Ah, so ignorance is a blessing? He is of the wild Elves of the forgotten forests? Now, I would have wagered he has noble Teleri blood."

"His father is of the Sindar, yes, the same tribe as the Elves of Alqualondë. His mother was Silvan."

"And he did not know of the laws or the prohibition?"

"I did know," Legolas said.

Glorfindel turned. His eyes narrowed, he thrust his hands into his hair. Legolas looked roused as if for battle. Yes, there was innocence there, of one whom had never slain his own kin, never been touched by the doom of the Noldor but also, the earthy wildness of the Elves of the woods, who gloried in the world.

"Thou wert very young," Glorfindel murmured. "Thranduil hated the Noldor with good reason, and I know many of his people did as they pleased in such matters. So I believed – or made myself hope, _forced_ myself to hope – that the Valar would not punish some-one whose people had not heard those Laws spoken."

"So my father believed," Legolas nodded. "He said no king could command a whole people to follow laws laid down in Valinor, by Powers they had never seen. Yet it was in the books of lore in Mirkwood."

Fëanor smiled, a white flash of appreciation. "And love is worth the price demanded?"

"Yes," Legolas said. "I saw how Elgalad was. A thousand years of the sun without the one he loved, That is no life at all. You could not have prevented me from loving you, Glorfindel."

"Thou wert impossible to refuse." Glorfindel said, and there was a silence under the sough of the sea, the music of voices.

"And it was equally impossible for me to look at thee and not love thee," Legolas smiled.

"He _is_ very hard to refuse." There was a laugh in Fëanor's voice but also curiosity. Glorfindel turned to him, his eyes warning.  
"I do not recollect _asking_ thee."

"Fëanor, I would speak to thee." Perhaps Fingolfin had been listening and chose to deflect his half-brother. Perhaps he was one of the few who could.

Fëanor turned, his expression still holding amusement. "Yes, Nolofinwë?"

~~~

Ages had passed and yet what had truly changed? Glorfindel thought now. Fëanor and his sons had been doomed for the Oath, and some like Maedhros and Fingon had been punished for their love. Yet they had done what they had done, they were still kinslayers, and the tensions which had grown in Aman and in Beleriand had not been forgotten.

A pair of fine, long fingered hands settled on his shoulders and pressed expertly at the taut muscle. He tipped back his head with a groan of pleasure.

"How long does it take to sail from Valinor to Middle-earth?" Legolas asked.

"Not long," Glorfindel murmured. "Valinor is outside the world now. It did not seem to take long when I returned."  
He turned and his eyes took in his lover with one comprehensive sweep. The prince had allowed his hair it to grow since the end of the War, and now it was was wind-tossed in a cloud of pale gilt to his waist. The yew-green tunic was blown hard against his torso, outlining the hoops pierced through his nipples, something which never failed to rouse Glorfindel. He had no doubt at all it would rouse others.

"Let us go below."

As they went, Glorfindel saw Fëanor watching them from his ship. The light breaking on the waters gathered in his eyes, so that they were Silmarils themselves. A spike of anger drove up through Glorfindel, a presentiment which required no power, only his own knowledge of the High King and what drove him.

~~~

The day seemed to presage an early spring: mild winds from the south-west, a sea the chill blue of a sapphire, faceted by whitecaps. The peaceful activity of Mithlond continued as it had for thousands of years.

Círdan had lived under the stars before the sun and moon, and his oldest and deepest love was the waters. The first sound he had heard was the cold, laughing rush of the streams flowing into the inland sea of Helcar. Long after he had sailed the Great Ocean from white walled Brithombar and Eglarest before Morgoth's armies came down on them. And then he had come here, to the Gulf of Lhûn. The last place.

It was said by the Elves of the Havens that Círdan was beloved of Ulmo. He knew the rhythm of the seas, the breathing of its tides and its untameable wildness. He was so old he had no true age, and yet in all his years he had not seen what this day brought. He had watched, under dark skies, the great burning in the north when Fëanor had landed his stolen swan-ships in the Firth of Drengist and put them to the torch. He had not seen the Noldor arrive.

"My lord?" The Elf whom almost burst into his solar was all eyes. "My lord ! Come and see !"

If there had not been that wild excitement in the others face, Círdan would have thought an enemy army was approaching. He rose without a word and went outside, to the long balcony of his villa overlooking the firth.

A fleet was running before the wind, the ships white and lovely, skimming the waters, sails taunt and pennons snapping from the mastheads. There was no fear in the Shipwright as he tallied the numbers, but there was disbelief and awe as the first three vessels, with a masterful ease, drew in to the quayside, nudging the white stone. Ramps thudded down one after another and when Círdan saw who came down onto his docks he said: "I do not believe this."

It could not be said that all the arrivals were welcomed with open arms, but no-one had expected that. After speaking with Círdan, Glorfindel made preparations to ride to Imladris, for the Elves there must be told what had come to pass. It was possible some, like Galadriel already knew, but out of courtesy, both she and Thranduil must be told.

It was the party riding to Imladris itself which caused some concern. Elrond had Finwion blood and there were those who wanted to meet him. Maglor would go with his son to ask Fanari Penlodiel to pardon him. Maedhros, who had come to love Elrond and Elros, when they were in he and Maglor's keeping, also wished to see the Peredhel. Fëanor also desired to go, since the actions of his second son, he said, concerned him. More than one person wondered at the reception he would receive in a place where memories were long and many were Noldorin survivors. Fëanor's name among the Elves would ever be associated with death and doom. One might have expected to see some compunction in his manner. There was nothing.

No-one saw them as they journeyed from Mithlond to the east-west road. The lands were quiet in the aftermath of the War. It had been a rich autumn and the short days of winter drove the cottars and villagers of the Shire and the Breeland indoors early. Some might have believed they heard the distant swift run of horses, the bell-like jingle of harness, but few opened their doors to investigate further.  
On ground made hard by frost, the horses ran like honey, and they and their riders made a sight so beautiful that the wild land seemed only a backdrop for them. They shone with the fire of their souls which illuminated their flesh and made stars of their eyes. Not all had been born here, but the ancestors of every Elf had awoken under a starlit sky and the Earth, not Aman, was their truest home.

~~~

Elrond and his sons had not slept that night. The storm of the war, when everything had hung on such a small hope, when all had almost fallen in ruin, had faded. And so much else seemed to be fading with it. Through the years of war and the shorter years of peace, the son of Eärendil had stood against the darkness of the world, first as friend and herald of Gil-galad, and later as lord, loremaster and healer of the hidden valley of Imladris. He remembered Beleriand before the seas drank it, he had seen the fall of kings and princes, he had loved and begotten children, one of whom had taken the path of her foremother Lúthien. His sons remained, and he knew without asking that they would not make that choice. Yet they loved Middle-earth, both Elves and Men, and would not yet depart.

The long years, falling like the last leaves of autumn, brilliant with memories both terrible and glorious. He was resigned but also determined, for his lordship and his self-appointed duties were ended, and he had missed his wife's presence every moment since she had, in grief and torment, been put on board ship to sail to Valinor.

This night though, a night of frost and glaring stars, he was not resigned, nor peaceful. He had not been for some time, after waking from a dream of a Silmaril pulsating with such force and splendor that even when he eased himself from the dreaming, his eyes still felt the burn of the after-images.

He wished Glorfindel were here, but since riding from Minas Tirith in the summer, no-one had seen him. Elrond found that when he thought of Glorfindel his mind was struck by a force, a heat that both bewildered and intrigued him. He was uneasy, but not fearful. It made him restless, however, and he had seen the same in his sons.

From his balcony, where he cradled a tisane of mint and honey, he saw Menelvagor blazing like a challenge in the western sky. To the east came the first melting of the darkness. Frost lay brittle and thick on the grass.

He heard two horses coming single file in the dark across the slender bridge. The twins. He knew without even touching their minds, which were white-hot with astonishment. Putting down the cup he listened, heard the clatter as the horses entered the ward, and behind it, more distant there were more hooves. A great many.

Elladan and Elrohir met him half-way.

"Adar," they spoke as one.  
"A great company has crossed the ford." Elrohir continued.

"They are Elves," his brother added.

The arch of the bridge rang as the riders crossed it. All the House of Elrond had gathered to the ward and more lanterns were lit. The light flared from silver-mounted harness, on jewel and embroidery of gold and silver, slid over velvet, glided over shining hair and caught eyes which burned with flame.

Elrond, with a surge of relief, saw Glorfindel, Tindómion, Legolas, familiar faces in this strangeness. Then he realized there were faces here which were likewise known and loved, faces of those long dead or lost.

Some-one close by made a small sound which was choked off.

Gil-galad, Maglor, Maedhros and beside him one so similar in looks to Gil-galad that he could be no-one but Fingon. Behind them two sat motionless. They were very alike and magnificent beyond the telling, one with eyes of silver-blue light, the other...

"Holy Eru...!" He heard himself saying, and because he was Elrond and not a small figure in the events of Middle-earth, he walked forward, his sons beside him and bowed. And then he was engulfed by the wave of greeting from the two Fëanorions' whom had harbored he and his brother, and by the high king whose standard he had borne.

"Mother."

Fanari was standing motionless, her hand at her throat.

"Mother," Tindómion said again and then was silent, for this was between she and his father. There was a frown between his brows, but he felt a touch on his arm and knew it was Gil-galad, felt the silent reassurance.

"Lady." A high color had swept across Maglor's cheekbones because now every-one was watching and listening. Tindómion had always been notorious as the ill-gotten son of what was almost a rape, although there were many who stated it could not have been rape or Fanari would have died. There were those, however, such as Elrond, whom had witnessed it, and Círdan, whom had carried her to the Isle of Balar, whose words could not be doubted.

There was a vast and terrible shame in Maglor's eyes, a difficulty in his speech as he said: "I cannot ask forgiveness for my crime. No madness or grief can excuse it." He did not say that he had paid and paid, and paid again, in the coinage of despair and agony, for that bloody day and the days before it when his sword had reft life from those of his kin.

"No, my lord." Fanari's voice shook, tears burned on cheeks in the lamplight. "It _does_ excuse it. Perhaps the only excuse for violence is pain. I forgave thee then, and I was _proud_ to bear thy son."

Tindómion wanted to embrace her for so many things: for raising him to love when he had vowed to hate, for making this so easy now for his father. He did not move as Maglor, battling with his own uprush of emotion went down on one knee before her.

"Dost thou desire requital, lady?"

The voice, so compelling and beautiful that no-one who heard it ever forgot, rang in the ward like a bell. Fanari looked past her son. He saw her eyes widen, her head briefly shake, before she went down in a slow, graceful reverence to the very ground.

"No, my lord Fëanor. I have been requited in my son."

~~~

It was a little later. The sun sparked shards of white from the frost as it rose over the mountains to the east.  
All of Imladris gathered outside the Hall of Fire, as Glorfindel spoke, telling them how the balance had shifted, how wrongs had been redressed, of the new future. Silence lay like a great hand over the valley, for it was not something which could be digested in clamor and questions.

Elrond watched Glorfindel, knowing now what he had sensed. The sun's power seemed to have burned into him and imprinted itself into his soul and flesh. And the other, the son of Sauron that no-one had ever heard of or known existed?  
There was so much power here that he felt as if the cliffs would crack with it like a clay bowl: Glorfindel, the reborn Noldor and somewhere, the Silmaril, recovered from the Great Sea. How could the Mortal lands harbor such potency?

His people gathered about him, about Glorfindel, Legolas, Tindómion, Gil-galad, those they knew. They were not so eager to approach Fëanor and his sons, even Fingolfin and Fingon, for to most of them they were figures out of the deeps of time, marked by doom. They stood aloof and glorious as if they indeed watched from the past and their eyes were rising stars.

When Tindómion came to his side and murmured the name in his ear, the name that Elrond loved, he gestured to his sons and then listened, his heart expanding to meet the rising sun.

"She will not return, not yet," Tindómion said. "Middle-earth will never be safe, and who knows that better than she?"

"How did she look?" It was Elladan, and his words brought back to them all their last sight of her, the broken windflower with scars under the tears in her eyes.

"Radiant. Beautiful as spring."

The twins bowed their heads and Elrond closed his eyes. All their hearts were too full to speak for a long time. Some-one brought wine and they drank and their faces seemed healed of something which had been there for so long it had worn into them as an arrowhead wears into tree-bark.

Tindómion left them and found himself questioned again and again. He looked for his father after a while, saw him with Gil-galad and Fanari, who was smiling. That same look of easement was about her too, beneath the gloss of wonder. He had never seen that tension in her until it was gone. It had been a waiting, he realized now. All the years since his birth she had waited for him to find Maglor. She looked around as he crossed to them and he kissed her brow.

"I have to go and help with the chambers," she said. "We must not let it be said that Imladris cannot nobly house such unexpected guests."

"Wouldst thou care to lodge with me, _adar?_ " Tindómion was aware of the silent weight of Gil-galad's gaze. His cheeks were hot. From the brief silence before his father answered, from Fanari's carefully neutral expression, he knew both were aware of all the nuances, his mother more than any-one. She had watched he and the last High King dance their dance of forbidden love as the Second Age lengthened.

"I would not presume," she spoke after the pause had lengthened a little too much for comfort. "But I would offer thee my room, my lord Gil-galad."

"No, lady, I would not oust thee from thy chambers!"

"I will have much to do with my maid," she stated. "I can stay in her rooms. And it would honor me." The smile had vanished. "Please, my lord." And her son knew that she was thinking of those seasons after his return from Mordor, Gil-galad's death like a void in his world, every breath one of pain.

She moved, cast the flowing bliaut over her arm and murmured: "Come."

Her chambers, as it happened, were adjacent to her son's. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legolas' nipple piercings are not my idea. They are in honor of Esteliel's brilliant Cuil Eden arc, which I thoroughly recommend, and the reason I pair Glorfindel and Legolas, because her series of these two just enthralls me.
> 
> Note: Frodo departed from the Grey Havens to Valinor in 3021, with Elrond, Galadriel, Gandalf and presumably other Elves. This story begins in the winter of the end of the War of the Ring, 3019-20 and therefore the aforementioned are still in Middle-earth


	4. ~ What Lies Between Us ~

 

~ He was aware of the eyes on him, on his sons, his half-brother, on all of them, but mostly he, who had forged their doom, laid it upon all who followed him. He felt their reactions, sensed their thoughts.  
 _Fëanor. Kinslayer._  
  
Glorfindel had given them the long tale of sorrow, war and death on the strands of Eldamar. They knew it now. It was part of their memories, their history, even those who had died long ago, even he, who had set all in motion and died in fury, accomplishing nothing, leaving his sons alone to carry the burden of their oath.  
And that was his only true regret, that he had died too soon. Some never saw past the pride and the arrogance, the sheer force of him. They did not know how deeply, how fiercely he could love, how he had loved his sons and raged like a blazing torch in the Void as he was shown their despair, the crumbling of their worlds. Their deaths.  
A love as potent as he was.  
  
"Is this what it came to?" he murmured. "The Firstborn scattered in forests and valleys, hidden?"  
  
"This is a world of Men, they breed more prolifically than we ever did, even in Valinor." Fingolfin's reply was equally low. But in his eyes towers rose, and banners flew on the ramparts of Barad Eithil and in Hithlum and on Himring and there had been hope and, for a while, a long golden peace. And for him? Only the everlasting sorrow.  
"We too will be hidden, in New Cuiviénen."  
  
"Perhaps not forever."  
  
"This is a new beginning. And the world has changed beyond what I had foreseen. It will not be easy at best."  
  
"Oh?" The gem-bright eyes turned from their unwinking scrutiny of Imladris. "Why?" Teasing mockery.  
  
"Because, Fëanor, even with the support of Glorfindel, very few of our people either trust thee or love thee."  
  
Fëanor laughed, a rich, mellow sound which caused those watching to wonder what had provoked it. They also saw the change it brought to the haughty, beautiful face, the charisma which bound his blood to him in fetters of love and loyalty – and hate.  
  
"Then some things have not changed. And thou, _brother,_ dost thou trust me? Love me?" He turned directly to face Fingolfin and their profiles were exact images, as if both were stamped on the face of one coin.  
  
"Trust the one who abandoned my people in Araman, left us to cross Helcaraxë, left us bound to thee even after thy death?" Fingolfin enunciated each word with a bite. "Perhaps only I could find any humor in thy question! Thou knowest what thou didst to ensure my loyalty, and yet when Glorfindel refused thee, I meant _nothing !_ We were betrayed by thee. And I, doubly!"  
  
"Yes, I did betray thee, in wrath and grief and madness. That was wrong." Fëanor's smile vanished. "If we had been united we could have brought down Morgoth, reclaimed the Silmarilli..."  
  
"We cannot know that. We were under a doom."  
Even still, even now, was that all that mattered?  
  
Fëanor snapped his fingers dismissively. "And yet, even with that, it was a close run thing. There is more than doom. Nothing is absolute. I saw it, brother ! _So close !_ Bauglir mocked me, laughed at me, showed me thy death, my sons, Fingon, Glorfindel – and yet we came so close to defeating him! I watched my only surviving son wander Middle-earth like a houseless fëa until Morgoth's servant captured him, tortured him, raped him... " Long lashes fell over the preternatural light of his eyes.  
  
 _I was wrong, there is more than lust for freedom and revenge upon Morgoth._ Fingolfin clasped his arms, felt the heat like a burn.  
"I was shown those things also."  
  
Fëanor's eyes opened. "Whatever the pain, whatever the wrong done, there was magnificence in our ending !"  
  
"There need not have been an end."  
  
"Even had I not attacked the Swanhaven, we would have been doomed, thou knowest it. The Valar did not like it when their imperfect little toys defied them or their laws." Fëanor moved closer, uncaring of those that watched. "What wounded thee most greatly? My abandonment of thee or my betrayal of thy love?"  
  
"I will not answer thee. The old laws are destroyed, yet that is still an offense." Fingolfin did not move, his fingers still held his half-brothers taut arms. As it had been, so it was still, spark meeting spark, fire and lightning.  
  
"All I saw, all I see, is something desirable. I burned with pride of thee when thou didst meet Morgoth, alone. My soul wept for thy death."  
  
The words shook Fingolfin.  
"Thou wert my last thought, even then."  
He knew he was a heartbeat from kissing Fëanor, here under the open skies of this valley, before all those gathered, intoxicated by his presence now as he had been as a child. This was too dangerous. The Noldor might accept the love of ones own gender, but not in kinship this close. He deliberately loosed his hold, stepped back.  
  
"Not again, half-brother."  
  
"Nolofinwë, we are both what we were." Fëanor laid a hand flat on his breast. "What runs between us and our blood cannot be quenched by time, by words. Or by death."  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Fanari's chests had been carried from her chambers already, but the books and scrolls remained, the bed spread with new coverlets which smelled of lavender. A fire was lit, although with the hypocausts this was for the comfort of the flame rather than need. Wine and food had been left. On her way out, Fanari had paused and looked at Gil-galad.  
  
"Be welcome, my lord. For thou art. So very welcome."  
  
"It has been a long time, lady." He took her hands, but he did not ask her anything. He was too proud. And so was Tindómion. What a pair, he thought with wry anger, forced by politics and Law to be less than lovers, more than friends. And now...? He thought of what Maedhros had said, and wondered how he would have lived had Tindómion died in the war and not he. The thought pained him.  
  
It had been impossible to be alone until now, and indeed he did not seek solitude from those who gathered about him, from his father or grandsire. He only wanted privacy to think. Coming to Mithlond, riding through the deserted lands of what had once been Arnor, he had seen the ruined tower of Amon Sûl, where Elendil had waited for him to ride out of the west.  
 _Ruined._  
  
In the Void there had been no time, no point for his mind to fix on as he waited for the visions. There was never any warning, they would come out of the endless dark, strike him like a blow, and he could not hide from them or deflect them. Yet it had not been eternal, he _knew_ he had lived, knew he had loved, and he clung furiously to that knowledge. And now it seemed as if those thousands of years could not have passed, yet everywhere he looked gave the lie to that. Even Imladris, superficially unchanged, held so few people compared to when Gil-galad had ruled Lindon.  
  
He heard voices from the next balcony, Tindómion's and Maglor's, so alike, their tones quiet. A bloom of light showed that a lamp had been lit in the chamber.  
  
 _Gorthaur!_  
  
Ereinion.  
  
Aeglos had been broken, he had drawn his blade, Helegon, as he faced the Dark Lord, come forth at last, the One Ring throbbing upon his hand.  
  
 _Thy Fëanorion lover calls to thee. He never told thee of Ost-in-Edhil did he? When I gave him the ring which would have made thee ruler of half the world? I touched him, all of him, and he responded, eager as any human trull._  
  
 _"He would never touch thee!"_  
  
 _Oh, but he did, little king, he offered himself to me. Hot as his grandsire. He and his father proved most pleasurable._  
  
 _"Thou liest!"_  
  
His wrath had made him reckless, he wanted only to reach Sauron and meet him blade-to-blade. He had not thought to look behind him and could not deflect or dodge the spear that caught him in the shoulder. He had been wounded, off-balance, when the troll-wielded mace had shattered his bones and hurled him at the feet of the Dark Lord.  
  
In the void he had been shown the Sauron had not lied; he had indeed seduced Tindómion in Ost-in-Edhil, and had he chosen to, could have possessed him. As Annatar, he had woven his sorcery into the Fëanorion's dreams and desires, taken him back to the grey-wet night in Lindon, the first time they had almost kissed. Tindómion had known what could have been had he not drawn back. He had responded to Sauron wearing Gil-galad's face.  
It was not a betrayal, not truly, and yet it enraged him.  
  
He sipped the wine. The voices from the adjoining room faded. After a while he walked onto the balcony. The air was darkening, but was not so chill as when they had arrived this morning. Glorfindel, he thought, his presence and that of the Silmaril. The Havens of Sirion had likewise been blessed by clement weather, rich seas and harvests when a Silmaril had been held there by Elwing. Which thought brought him back to the one so close, who had been engendered there. He set the winecup down, walked down the steps and turned to tread up those to Tindómion's chamber.  
  
"He is not here, Gil'," Maglor said, his eyes held many emotions, not the least of which was empathy.  
  
Gil-galad shrugged. "No matter. I thought I heard his voice."  
  
"He will not be long."  
Maglor laid a hand on his arm and gestured down the line of the building. "There is a path opposite the last rooms, Glorfindel's, leading up to a small lap of land. It is a very private place for him. Few go there."  
  
"So he wishes to be alone there?"  
  
"He told me he is never alone there." Maglor paused, brought a hand up to cup Gil-galad's face gently. "He told me of thy death. They brought thee here."  
  
Gil-galad felt his eyes widen. The emotion which shook through him was more of startlement than morbid curiosity. So absorbed was he in being alive in this new form that he had not wondered where his shattered remains had been lain long ago. He pressed his fingers to Maglor's for a moment and then turned and walked in the direction he had indicated.  
  
"Gil." Maglor's voice was softly urgent. "Do not doubt. Only give him time. There is an Age to cross between thee."  
  
As he passed the end chambers he looked aside, his eyes drawn by glissade of golden hair, saw Glorfindel with Legolas in his arms, devouring him like a lion, fierce with need. He saw one of the prince's long white thighs slide up about his lover's hip, responsive and hungry, and as he walked on, heard a cry blending pain and pleasure both. Glorfindel cared nothing who might see or hear, and Gil-galad wished he had been as open, as flagrant in intent, when he had lived and ruled. When he had done so, deliberately challenged the laws, when he had arranged that Tindómion and he be seen together, naked, wildly kissing, it had lead to a trial before his lords, a demand for abdication. After that, Tindómion had left Lindon for a time.  
  
 _"To prove this and my love for the King who is the only King I will ever recognize, I will leave Lindon."_  
  
The path was laid with old bark, climbing steeply up the heather-grown cliff-face. Gil-galad sprang up, silently, reveling in the feeling of his body, the stretch of muscles, the breath in his lungs.  
A birch tree stood sentinel in this quiet place. A small waterfall plunged down into a pool and above the cliff rose again into a sky where the first stars glimmered.  
  
Tindómion stood motionless not far from the tree, his head bent. The last finger of sunlight to strike the high ledge glowed on the mane of bronze hair before Anor slipped over the rim of the world. Gil-galad stepped forward, his eyes on the slab of white marble, set flush into the turf, the Sindarin runes carved deep into the surface and still clear, inlaid, he saw, with gold. His name.  
  
It was a strange moment. It is not given to many to view their own tomb. His thoughts fractured into odd paths: the rock was close to the surface here, so the grave must have been chipped out of the stone. He was not beneath the gravestone; his body was long gone to dust within his armour. And still...  
"Didst thou bring me here?" He asked quietly in the stillness of dusk.  
  
"No." Tindómion did not move or look around. "I rode to Lindon. I do not even know how I got there. I went to the palace. I rode, I walked...as if I expected to find thee."  
Gil-galad turned at the raw pain in the words.  
"Glorfindel and Elrond brought thee."  
  
"Istelion."  
  
"My mother sent a message to Glorfindel. I think she believed I would take my own life. And had I not bound myself to finding my father, I would have." Now he did look up, no self-pity in the tone, in his face, but his eyes showed everything. "And now – I turn and thou art here. It is... "

"What?" Gil-galad demanded, wanting to tear the clothes from Tindómions body, and feast upon it, feel the play of the sinews, the slip of the hair, to take and be taken until there was no difference between them, until they were welded into one entity by passion and love.  
  
"Have the years been so long that thou canst no longer read me?"  
  
"Read thee? When thou didst forge such armor about thyself? No. Although sometimes thine actions could be more eloquent than any words."  
  
They had been reunited, and there had been no doubt of the love in Tindómion's face, his embrace, but there were many kinds of love. What had brought Gil-galad here was the urge to know if he was still _desired._ He did not believe the hunger that had between them could die, but that proud face was as impenetrable as it had been when Tindómion affected the part of knight-companion and courtier in Lindon: A perfect mask.  
  
Gil-galad had considered asking Glorfindel, who could read the heart and mind, but he needed the proof himself. Since their meeting on the beach of Aman, Tindómion had given no hint of any emotion save deep gratitude that his once-king was returned. The guarded sternness of his face was so familiar that had the circumstances been otherwise Gil-galad would have been amused.  
How to break through it? He would not beg and only in their last years in Mordor had they shared themselves, eased one another, yet not possessing. Everything but that.  
  
"Thou wert surprised to know that our prisoner, the Elven thrall, was Sauron's son?"  
He saw that his question threw Tindómion, but that was his intent: to lessen the tension between them for a moment.  
  
"I cannot say I am wholly surprised, only that Sauron ever sired a child. But he seemed different, that one, and not only in the color of his eyes. His binding to the Dark Lord...I only hope that Elgalad, whom is with him, will be safe."  
  
Gil-galad had heard, as they all had, of Elgalad, knew that Tindómion counted him a friend. He said: "They love, do they not?"  
  
"Sometimes that is not enough," Tindómion whispered.  
  
"Thou speakest with knowledge? Is it _not_ enough Istelion, to we who forget nothing, even in our deaths?"  
  
" _Is_ it enough, in death?" And suddenly, like a torch burning up, the passion was there as he cried: "How could it be enough? I condemned thee to the Void!"  
  
"I would have condemned myself for thee," Gil-galad hit back. "I regret _nothing ._ "  
  
"Seeing thy father's death? Maedhros' death? Glorfindel told me, none of thee were spared anything."  
  
"And the only thing which sustained us were our memories."  
  
The move was impossibly fast. Suddenly Tindómion was flat on his back, his legs swept out from under him. He thrust himself up with a warriors reflexes and was pinned back down as Gil-galad straddled him.  
  
"It is hard for thee. For all of us. I have been advised to give thee time, _Nárya._ But there will be no more dissimulation. That is over." He lowered his head, felt the lips under his part, the battle of their mouths exploded through him like exquisite fire, more than a kiss, the thing which always happened, to him, his father. _The thread of fire between our houses._ The power in it seared his mind, sparked through his nerves.  
It was he who broke it and rose, hard as a spear under his breeches. He took one long, deep breath of the cold, clear air.  
  
"No more pretense." He turned and jumped down the path waiting for Tindómion to call him back or follow him.  
  
He did not. And Gil-galad knew he would not. He should have forced the issue, up there on that apron of land where his bones were dust under the slab. But why should he have to force what should be willingly given?  
What had truly changed? One thing had not: he was not the only one who had been aroused. Tindómion had been hard even before he went onto the ground. He felt himself smile angrily, but with some satisfaction.  
  
People were making their way to their chambers for the feast later, which would be fraught with tension, Gil-galad knew, having presided over many gatherings where the disapproval was thick enough to be carved with a knife. Lamps illuminated the whole building. The long drapes had been drawn in Tindómion's room, but not fully, as if some-one had dragged them impatiently together, leaving a gap. Light spilled out and Gil-galad stopped. The pose of the two in the chamber was powerful and poignant, raw in its beauty.  
  
Maglor was naked from the waist up. He stood in profile, his throat arched, head tipped back against his father's, whose arms were locked around him in a gesture both tender and possessive.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The chasm between death and rebirth, loss and reunion required time, an acceptance of what both the dead and the living had suffered. Maglor felt this with his own brothers, his uncle, his father, with all whom he had known. One after another they had been lost to him,. What they had endured was too much. It burned him with both anguish and rage. Yet he knew somehow he had to know, to feel it, for the discontinuity to be bridged. Thus he could not tell Gil-galad that all would fall seamlessly into place, that all would not be easy. That that his son loved, he knew. Tindómion had unleashed his feelings in a torrent, but he was not wholly self-absorbed. He had offered to share his chambers because he saw Maglor's own turmoil.  
  
He drew off his tunic and unlaced his shirt, turning to go into the bathing chamber. He halted, reaching out to touch Tindómion's harp, remembering the music out of a night of storm and wind when their souls had truly found one another. He plucked a string and one mellow note throbbed in the air. A sob. A tear.  
  
"Wilt thou play this night?"  
  
His shoulders tensed at the voice, resonant, mellifluous with it's familiar, embedded ring of arrogance.  
  
"It is long since I heard thee."  
  
"I will play for thee _adar._ "  
  
The hard-muscled arms locked around him, drew him back. He felt the radiance seep into his flesh. It seemed impossible that Fëanor had ever _not_ existed. He was too vital to ever be dead.  
  
"I should not have died," he murmured, as if reading Maglor's thoughts. "Leaving all of thee alone."  
  
Maglor's blood ran hot. There was a rush in his ears as of the sea, or the rustle of fire. His heart was a heavy, laboring thing, held in his father's hand.  
  
"I could never truly believe thou hadst died." His throat swelled and closed. "The world was not complete without thee in it."  
  
The arms tightened and he felt the warm, wine-sweet breath on his throat as he tipped his head back, his body and soul helplessly inviting, even as he was flayed by the acid of sin. It was irresistible and terrible. He remembered a night in Hithlum, as he had prepared to go to Rosriel. Fingolfin and he had both reached through the other to find that within them which was Fëanor.  
His father's lips rested on his skin and then he moved, turned Maglor in his arms, drew his hands through the mane of hair so like his own.  
  
"Maitimo and thee, both tormented, both scarred. And neither of thee broken."  
  
"Thou wouldst not have broken." Maglor forced himself to meet the acute, brilliant eyes. "That was all I could think of at first."  
It was hard to articulate, to remember, but Fëanor was watching him, he who had feared nothing in his life.  
"Maedhros endured, and thou wouldst never have allowed Morgoth to break thee." The long fingers were gentle against the nape of his neck, moving in small soothing circles. "I thought of thee. It is the last thing I remember, until I woke."  
  
A flash of grief and fury crossed the haughty face, a look of balked hate. The ones who had inflicted torture on his sons were beyond vengeance, and Maglor thanked Eru for that. He must not think, either, of that one who had brought him back from the grey shores of death.  
  
" He wanted thee father. Morgoth," he whispered. "Vanimórë told me, when I was...healing. Morgoth wanted thee as his slave, his plaything."  
  
Fëanor nodded, there was a strange smile on his scrolled mouth.  
  
"But he sent Balrogs to slay thee, not capture thee."  
  
"Morgoth _knew_ I would never bow to him! The only way to conquer me was to kill me!" The laugh held a flash of hard contempt. "It matters not, only this matters, this new beginning. And seeing something in thine eyes which is not only pain." He drew Maglor's head towards him and kissed his brow, tender and hot as a bloom of fire, and Maglor sank into his embrace. The heat melted through his bones and blood, with relief, and shame, and soul-deep love. ~


	5. ~ The Dance Of Love And Lust ~

 

~ The feast hummed with exactly the kind of tension Gil-galad had expected. It sprang from many things: the presence of the kinslayers, the new-made Vala, and the open displays of desire between Glorfindel and Legolas, Maedhros and Fingon. There were still some here who considered it wrong; it had been so long entrenched in them that they might never accept it, but Tindómion was more blatant than he had ever been in Lindon.

It was the old game of unspoken flirtation, the meeting of glances, the touches, the smiles, but now without the need to conceal it. Gil-galad could have struck Tindómion for playing this as it suited him, yet it was deliciously exhilarating. If time was what was his lover needed, then, he thought, slanting a deliberately provocative smile down the table, he would have it. The silver eyes sparked, melted into the hot brilliance of molten lead, and their heat drove straight into Gil-galad's groin. He took a slow sip of wine, holding that ardent gaze, and the atmosphere of the room smoked with the incense of sex. Some left early, disapproval or uncertainty writ clear on their faces, others, although they looked as if they wished to leave for quite different reasons, remained out of courtesy to their host. When the meal was over, Gil-galad rose and lifted a hand to Elrond, who joined him with a smile.

"And what wilt thou do, my friend?" he asked. "How long wilt thou abide here? It would sadden me to see Imladris deserted."

"It will not be wholly abandoned," Elrond assured him. "Soon I will depart, but my sons will stay, and others. And perhaps now something will always remain."

"I hope thou wilt join us in time, all of thee."

"If Celebrian ever feels she can return, we will, but I will not willingly expose her to danger again." Elrond's eyes held both peace and a yearning to see his wife. "We both know that even with Sauron gone and Morgoth before him, their legacy will endure forever. I think I will relish the peace of the new Aman for a time. I cannot see the new haven of the Noldor being tranquil."

Gil-galad felt an unwilling laugh rise in him as he looked to where Fëanor was sitting, glowing and perilously beautiful, gesticulating as he spoke to Fingolfin. The Fëanorions' all spoke with their hands, Tindómion did also. Fingolfin's own were clasped tightly, his sleek brows drawn in a faint frown. Gil-galad remembered his youth, watching his father and Maedhros close together, their profiles so similar. The only true difference had been in their hair: the Fëanorion's bore leonine manes, Fingolfin, his children and theirs were sleek, thick, straight. He thought of Maglor, leaning back in Fëanor's arms...

"No," he agreed. "I cannot either."

"Gil..."

"Let me wager on thy next words: to give Istelion time?"

Elrond looked to where Tindómion was rising to join his father. They had been asked to play.  
"Since you both lived in this fashion for so long, what can a little more time matter?"

"My father and Maedhros did not need time."

"They were lovers long before they were parted by death, Gil," Elrond observed. "And you do not know that all ran smoothly at first, do you? You and Istelion lived in a time when it was said the Valar cursed those men or women who loved their own sex. It was true, and Istelion lived with the knowledge thou hadst been cast into the Void. He always will."

"The stubborn fool, yes, I know. Glorfindel has told me, and I see it clear enough in Istelion's face. And I would change only one thing – I would have had myself damned for loving wholly, utterly, not for the _game_ we played." He lowered his voice. "By the Hells, if I could walk back along the path of time, I would not allow him to play me as he did!"

"And yet you are not lovers, are you?"

"Is it so obvious?"

"To me it is, and to any who know you. And there is nothing preventing you. He is devouring you alive with his eyes. But something holds your hand."

Gil-galad smiled with bright bitterness. "Indeed. For I wonder how, if he loved me, he could have withheld himself for so long."

" _Because_ he loved you ! And because he is a Fëanorion. Sometimes I think they could will the sun to stop if they wished it!" Elrond closed his hand about Gil-galad's arm, pressed it gently. "Yet if you would heed the advice of an old friend, I do counsel you to give him time. He loves and wants you, but he is overwhelmed by the reality of your being here, and the knowledge that there are no barriers any longer."

Gil-galad considered and shrugged, attempting nonchalance, as he so often had in his old life. He felt the graze of Tindómion's stare like the flick of fire and met it for heartbeats, knowing his own eyes belied his insouciance, showed a feral hunger.

"We will have much to do," he answered. "Time for him to become... _accustomed._ "

~~~

The atmosphere slid from Fëanor's consciousness like water from hot metal. He had never been concerned with how other's viewed him. He sat on Elrond's right, Fingolfin on the Peredhel's left, listening to Maglor and Tindómion play, like echoes of one another, their mastery drawing down silence. When they ended he smiled and rose from his seat, gathering eyes as a lode-stone gathers chips of iron, and laid a hand on both their shoulders in a gesture of appreciation and possession.

"Thou hast lost none of thy skill, Canafinwë." He used that name, a reminder of long ago, with the hint of a caress. "And thou, Istelion, whom taught thee?"

"My father." There was a lingering music in the reply. "No, I did not know him, but anything I have comes from him. I played tunes I never knew and had never learned. There were harpists' in Lindon who tutored me, but the gift runs in my blood."

"Thou art Fëanorion." He saw Tindómion's eyes flick past him to his mother and turned. "Not so, lady?"

Fanari bent her head. She was smiling.  
"Sire, I have always told him so. And now, who can doubt it?"

Fëanor gave a slow nod of recognition, and said with calculated meaning: "The blood runs hot and thick in our line, and between both our houses, does it not, Gil'? For thou hast known my sons, and Istelion also." He watched the fine blossom of colour, and knew that not chagrin but desire painted it on the high cheeks.

"It does indeed, my lord."

"And thou also, thou art so like thy sire and grandsire." Tindómion's wide shoulder was rigid under his hand and Fëanor thought:  
 _Hells, thou shouldst go to him this night, and slake both thy hungers!_  
Yet he was no fool, had never been so, only mastered by emotion which blinded him to reason. Even he had been circumspect in his affair with Fingolfin. Tindómion had lived in a world where the taking of male lovers had become something monstrous. What would he, Fëanor have done? risked everything for passion's sake, been seen to publicly flout the Laws? Fingolfin was looking at him, even as Gil-galad's eyes were fixed upon Tindómion, and that wordless game was familiar to him. After they had become lovers, he and his half-brother had both maintained the illusion of mutual disregard. There had been a thrill to it. Doubtless it had been the same - still was the same - between Gil-galad and Tindómion.

When he came to his chambers it was the dark time before dawn. He could smell its approach in the air, in the stillness. He took off his clothes, unbound his hair, shaking it back with a lazy, luxurious motion. He stretched. The glory of being alive was still a wild thunder running in his blood, in the roots of his hair. He had never embraced stillness, and the helplessness of his imprisonment in the Void had well-nigh driven him mad – yet he knew what was said of him. Had he not always been a little mad? He laughed softly at the thought. Let them say it again. In the new haven he would build a home for his people, and it would be beautiful, and after that, there were infinite possibilities. And this time they would be free of the laws which had been laid on them, made with no understanding of what the Elves were. Glorfindel, their Vala, was no stranger to their needs. He had lived, twice, he had died. Fëanor knew his passions. Had he not awoken them? That Silvan prince must have some fire himself under the purity of his face to so ensnare Glorfindel.

Fëanor smiled, aware of the deep-rooted antipathy against his proclivities. Most of the faces at the feast had been accepting, some glad, others smooth and stiff with disapproval. It had not always been so, however, not before the Great Journey, before reaching Aman, where the Laws were laid down. He ran his hand down his chest, all of him hard, all erect, and he burned with a desire to sate his needs within hot, tight warmth, to dominate, as he always had.

_He wanted thee, father. Morgoth._

__  
**Always.**  


  
~~~

  
"Vast lands, Prince Curufinwë, wider than Aman, forests, plains, mountains. Lands rich in minerals and metals, stone and gems, in game, a world fit for the Noldor. A world they deserted, glamored by Valinor and the Trees. Thy father could tell thee."

"He has told me. And he has told me other things." He looked up from the design he was sketching: a helm, high-crowned, bearing tall plumes. "That it was not safe to venture abroad. Some did and were nevermore seen. There was danger in the shadows under the stars." His eyes met the other's without blinking, although they were eyes of great power, so dark a blue they were almost as black as the hair that poured sleek and thick down his back.  
When he had appeared in Tirion to meet the high king, Fëanor pondered, for his words were fair, even humble, and it accorded ill with his air of power.

He was beautiful, Melkor. Rebel, traitor to the Valar, defiler of the Great Music, and Fëanor watched him, running over the tales he had been told. What could he want from the Noldor? Why would he offer his counsel and his gifts so freely? The answer it seemed was simple: he wanted to escape, he was as stifled in Aman as Fëanor.

"He cannot be trusted, _atar,_ " he said flatly, after Melkor had departed, diffident as a subject desiring clemency.

"Why sayest thou this?" Finwë asked. "And what harm can he do in Valinor?"

Fëanor laid a hand on his father's shoulder.  
"Had I once been free, a Power, been beaten down and imprisoned, forced to sue for pardon, and granted a freedom where I must truckle and bow before my former enemies, all I would think of is how to avenge myself."

The doors swung open and his half-brother entered, with a glance back over his shoulder, before bowing.

"I heard that Melkor was come, _atar._ What did he want?"

Fëanor walked down the shallow steps.  
"To be _friends_ , Nolofinwë," he murmured, purposefully brushing against him as he passed, and the light, brilliant eyes flashed to his. He hid a smile as he walked out.

Despite his warning, he did not avoid Melkor. He observed. It was said Melkor was penitent and sought trust, although oft-times his soft speech, his humility almost made Fëanor laugh. It was manifestly false. In a short time he came to see one thing at least that the Vala wanted, and he used that knowledge mercilessly, used his body, his eyes, a smile, a lingering glance, because Melkor knew so much and Fëanor hungered to learn. He courted and teased the lust he sensed because it served his purpose, and he knew he had hooked this predator when Melkor came alone to Formenos one day.

"I see the desire for greater freedom in thine eyes, son of Finwë, for greater _knowledge._ "

"We have teachers, Lord Melkor."

"Thou hast outrun thy teachers."

There was a calculated pause, before Fëanor asked, with a bite of challenge: "If that is so then what canst _thou_ teach us?"

And there was a glint in those eyes which was not deferential at all, a flick of some intense emotion, swiftly concealed. Laughter, perhaps anger.

"Thou knowest little of weapons, save bows and spears, weapons for hunting, as well as war. Yet the Valar know of them and have not taught thee the art of making them. Endor is filled with many creatures and strife, prince. The Elves of the Outer Lands will have outstripped thee, and that may be something thou shouldst rectify."

And so Melkor had instructed the Noldor in the fashioning of swords, maces, axes, armor to defend the wielder against such weapons. As in all things, the Noldor soaked up the knowledge like hungry children and began to devise their own designs and alloys. Fëanor had learned of forging from Mahtan when he was a youth, and all his skill and power for making was poured into everything he created.

Everything.

Now in Formenos, he rose and poured a light amber wine into two cups.

"Thou hast swallowed all the Valar have spoon-fed thee, no doubt." Melkor watched him.

"Hardly." The goblet snapped down onto the table.

"Thou art not loved by many, thy half-brothers are jealous of the love thy father bears thee, but Finwë would follow thee." Melkor's voice was warmly persuasive. "Eventually, he would cede thee the high kingship. Not of Tirion, but of a new land, wider, freer. There is so much I could teach thee, _so much!_ But not in this gilded prison!"

Fëanor arched a brow.

"So... _much..._ " Melkor stepped forward until their eyes were a hands-breadth apart, and he whispered: "I know what stirs thy blood, thy desires which are against the Laws. Never make the error of believing I am not still the mightiest of all the Ainur. I see what is in thy mind."

"Then tell me what I want, lord Melkor."

"To be free, to be high king, to build an empire in the outer lands, kingdoms for thy sons... to take lovers who truly... _appreciate_ what is within thee." Melkor's fine hands unloosed his belt and he drew off the velvet robe he wore. "Does thine eldest son not share thy proclivities? does he not love and desire his cousin, and does it not eat at his soul that he must withhold or break two laws? In the lands beyond, where _thy_ laws will govern, he could find happiness."

"Thou wouldst seem to be uncommonly interested in my family." Fëanor's smile was a flash of white fire. He lifted a hand, fingers tracing delicately down the muscled planes of Melkor's breast and stomach, and further down, to the swollen heat which jutted from the pelt of black hair.

"No. In thee." There was a catch of breath and Fëanor said, spicing his voice with contempt: "I wondered if all of thy kin were bereft of the urges of the flesh."

"I have _lived,_ Curufinwë! I am _not as they!_ " He reached out, but Fëanor shook his head, half-smiling, as he slowly disrobed, kicked his boots aside, presented himself shamelessly.

"I will lead thee from Aman, I will see thee a king!" Melkor said thickly. "I ask only for thy loyalty, that thou ownest me as thy God. For that I am!"

Fëanor put out a hand and picked up his goblet, paused a moment, and the tilted it, so that the cold wine flooded down his naked chest. He leaned back on his hands, arching like a bow, the spill of his hair scattering vellum and charcoal. Melkor bent his head, sucked and licked the wine, drawing on the hard nipples, drank his way down, until his mouth closed about the hardened shaft. Around the startling pleasure, greater than he had believed possible, Fëanor breathed, "Own thee as a God? As mine overlord?"

 _As the supreme power of Arda, and I will give thee everything._ The words insinuated themselves into his mind _Give thyself to me and I will make the the greatest king the long ages of this world will ever know!_

He withdrew, leaving Fëanor afire with need, watching him through eyes hazed and unearthly.

"Kneel," Melkor commanded, and finally it was there; all obsequiousness had vanished. The arrogance was like a hammer.

Fëanor moved almost lazily, his fingers slipping into the bowl in which he kept the sealing wax soft. He rubbed it between his fingers, saw the other's eyes, dark as the bottom of a well, with a far, cold light in them. He raised one leg, as if to prepare himself and watched the pearl-gleam of essence on Melkor's engorged member.

"If I am thine, _under thee,_ I will be king of Endor?"

"Yes!" Melkor's voice was strained.

And Fëanor moved. He sprang from the table, spinning about and slamming Melkor against it, hearing the surprised grunt of breath.

"Thou doth want me? Then have me!" His wax-slicked fingers entered the tight opening. He pushed them deeper, feeling with the tips in the narrow confines, rubbing, curling them until he heard a sound of pleasure, felt the small node of nerves. He had heard of this, spoken in whispers by some of the Eru-begotten who had taken lovers of their own gender before coming to Aman, but had never tested it until now. So, this was not pleasurable only for the protagonist, as many said. He would remember that.

It elicited a startling response. A shudder racked the whole length of Melkor's body and his moan was a plea for more.

With a savage smile Fëanor removed his fingers and thrust himself in, surprised at the resistance. He gasped at the sensation of being clenched so fiercely. Melkor cried out, once and then again, bracing his hands, smearing wax and ink across the letters and parchment.

"I kneel to no-one, Melkor! I submit to _none!_ " He drove harder, did not even try to curb his violence. The Vala merited no gentleness. Fëanor could be aroused, could appreciate the perfection of the form unveiled to him, but there was something there that also repelled him. He had allowed his mind to imagine another and Melkor had not seen that, too bent on his own dreams of conquest. Fëanor sought to inflict pain, to punish the presumption of one who demanded his worship even as his body relished the experience. When he spent, it was with a feeling of discovery and triumph. He withdrew quickly, and Melkor pushed himself up and turned. His eyes were black with solid, terrifying hate. But Fëanor felt no terror, only a hard exultation.  
"I think thou hast indeed taught me something, Lord Melkor." He spoke with an edge of furious hilarity.

"I will have thee on thy knees and begging in the end, Curufinwë!" His eyes and voice made it a vow. "Thou art no Vala and thou wilt be made to know it!"

"And thou art. So why didst thou let me have thee, _Vala?_ " Fëanor goaded, fey and reckless. "Thou couldst have freed thyself at any time. Not so?"

Melkor hissed as he swept up his robes. Perhaps, Fëanor thought, he was weighing what might be his punishment if he killed the firstborn of the High King of the Noldor. Murder was in him. The air flickered and surged with power straining to escape - to kill. And Fëanor silently _dared_ him.

"Consider very carefully before rejecting what I offer thee or thou wilt find thyself alone, but for thy sons, for the greater part of the Noldor bear thee no love!" There was a wince of pain in his movements. "Thy half-brothers would be glad to see thee gone. And Valinor suits thee no better than I!"

"I know what is said of me. I know what my own people think of me, and yet I wonder who began the rumors of the jealousy between Nolofinwë, Arafinwë and I?" Fëanor said through his glittering, dangerous smile. "What is it? Ah, yes! I would drive them from Tirion and they consider me fell and over-proud and a danger to them, clasping my fathers love to myself. It suits me to let the rumors run. I know _exactly_ what my half-brothers think of me."

"I could denounce thee !"

"And so could I denounce thee, Melkor, but we both know we will keep silent, do we not? So – tell me why didst thou let me have thee?"

In the thunderous quiet after Melkor had gone, Fëanor laughed as he poured more wine.

"I know what my brothers think of me. And one of them at least will follow me. It is time I bound him to me."

He had returned to Tirion and ensured that he met with Fingolfin, whose eyes had followed him since he was a child, whom he had watched grow to startling beauty. He had seen it happen between young Findekáno and Nelyafinwë, and and knew it for the same attraction, blood calling to blood.

There was no doubt that he had the greatest share of Finwë's love, and he accepted it, and loved his father in return. When he was young he had indeed spoken against Finwë's second marriage, but came to understand the needs of the body soon enough.

It had needed no more than one look, an unspoken invitation, for his half-brother to follow him that day, beckoned to the library by a glance. Fingolfin had been magnificent, and Fëanor had ensured he gave pleasure, they were far more matched in passion than many would have guessed. It was Fingolfin's body he had imagined when he saw Melkor's nakedness, and after it he felt none of the sourness, the sense of something ill. There was no wrong in his half-brother, only ardor, white-hot and flammable, and a guilt which Fëanor found exhilarating. He delighted in seeing the shame disintegrate beneath wanton hunger.

Then there had been Glorfindel, growing to golden glory, unawakened, innocent, yearning for something forbidden.

In the Void, Fëanor had raged impotently at their deaths. Impotence was unbearable to him. Few would have believed he could have grieved so deeply. Those who had known him in Tirion remembered his madness and what he had brought upon those who followed him. They did not choose to recall his anguish at his father's death.

He reached out in the night, feeling Fingolfin awake, knowing that whatever he might say, what lay between he and those he had touched remained a furnace which had never ceased to burn, even in the dark.

_Brother._

_No. I cannot!_

_Remember us._

_Remember? Could I forget? But thou must rule us, Fëanor. And none will accept that. I cannot._

_I will rule. Is it politics or conscience that moves thee?_

_Perhaps both._

Fingolfin was right. Whatever the Noldor might accept, incest had been taboo long before the Valar laid down their laws, except perhaps in the very earliest days, when the Elves were still innocent. As for Fëanor he had never considered it wrong, desire was born of the blood and senses. None could tell where it would strike.  
For now, he allowed Fingolfin to refuse. Imladris was too small for such coupling to go unheard and unremarked. In time, he would claim him again. His half-brother had always been his.  
With a smile he drew on breeches and shirt and walked out into the moon-drenched gardens. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter end notes:
> 
> Nolofinwë - Fingolfin ( Quenya )  
> Arafinwë - Finarfin - ( Quenya )


	6. ~ New Allies, Old Shadows ~

 

  
~ "Spare thy words," Erestor said as soon as Borniven entered his chamber. "I am not sailing to Valinor."

Borniven turned to slam the doors together. His arrival from Lindon, some hours after the Noldor, had gone unremarked, and he had not attended the feast.

"Elrond and Glorfindel long suspected that we destroyed Gil-galad's will," he warned, but with less concern than Erestor had anticipated. He thought Borniven had come to urge him to flee to the Havens and thence to Valinor while he could.

"Glorfindel knew long ago," Erestor said scornfully. "If thou hadst dwelled here thou wouldst know."

"And he said nothing? And if he is Vala now..."

"If?" demanded Erestor, dropping his robe over a settle. " _If?_ Art thou blind even now? Nothing is what it was !"

"We still have a duty to those who would not be tainted by these unnatural..."

"Oh, be silent! Is it unnatural? Or is it simply another way of expressing love and desire?" Erestor raised his brows. "At any time thou hast visited when Legolas was also here, I noticed not one murmur from thee to Glorfindel of their relationship. Although that surprises me not at all ! Thou wert always vociferous only with others of like mind." He watched the rich temper-blood stain Borniven's cheeks. "I have already made my decision. Thy journey was in vain. I intend to journey to the new haven, whatever betide. I will admit my betrayal of Gil-galad's wishes."

He had changed since the Last Alliance. The news of Gil-galad's death had done that. It had manifested itself first in his refusing to remain in Lindon as Rosriel's adviser, and Borniven snarled: "What, thou wouldst run from Maglorion? He knows naught !"

"I go to speak with Elrond," Erestor said harshly. "And I will not return here. The Fëanorion is mad with grief. He knows not even who we are. He scarce knows where he is ! I do not flee from him !"

~~~

As they had suspected, Elrond did not take the high kingship, calling himself only Lord of Imladris. Erestor had said frankly that even had Gil-galad wanted Tindómion to be his successor, it was folly to think the Fëanorion would either desire to rule or be capable of it. Elrond had agreed, for that and other reasons. Even were Tindómion in full command of his faculties, the remaining Noldor would never accept him as their king, knowing what had happened to Gil-galad's soul after his death. That had run like a grass-fire through the Elves, _damned to the Void for his sin in loving Maglor's son._

The destroying of the Gil-galad's will had seemed necessary to Erestor, but Rosriel's reaction to her son's death was discomforting. He remembered his own mother in Gondolin, standing in the hall of her home and gripping a small knife against the black onslaught of orcs. He had tried to reach her, and Borniven had pulled him away, but not before he saw her go down under them. She had not run like his father.

As the Third Age raised itself from the bloodstained ashes of the second, Erestor found himself subject to dark moods and regrets. He met them face-to-face one night when his steps took him to the Gil-galad's grave under a candle-colored moon with the Sickle swinging high.

He had not been here before, and it was not easy. Despite the Laws and his public face, he had desired the high king. His failure to prove himself in the dive from Ravensroost had been born of the fear that he would prove to be like his father and thus earn Gil-galad's scorn. He had frozen on that high tongue of rock. The king had not chided him, or evinced disappointment which was perhaps worse, but Erestor felt a furious shame which flamed into jealousy when the ill-gotten son of Maglor had walked into the great hall and claimed Gil-galad's heart. He had seen it, the meeting of their eyes, spark that met spark and burned up between them. Before that day he had believed his king did not look on men with desire.

After the war and the deaths of so many, Erestor felt an increasing shame at becoming embroiled in Rosriel's concentrated siege of bitterness. He also found that his hatred of Tindómion faded, for he could not hate some-one so harrowed by grief.

It had not been the Fëanorion he saw in the glade where Gil-galad's body lay under stone, but Glorfindel, hair and flesh shining gold-white in the dimness. For once, he did not turn away, perhaps it was the sense of reflection and aching sorrow that lingered here.

Erestor said stiffly: "I did not know any-one was here, excuse me."

"It is no matter." Glorfindel turned, began to walk past him and Erestor went on quickly: "I would like to train to be a warrior."

He did not know where the words had come from. He had never been alone in Glorfindel's company, had avoided it, for here was one who was reborn, had died to save the refugees of Gondolin. Erestor had been very young, but he remembered with Elven clarity the duel and the death. The contrast between Glorfindel and Salgant was vivid, and Erestor imagined that the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower must despise him for his father's acts. He expected a mocking answer, but it did not come. Glorfindel paused.  
"I believed martial pursuits did not interest thee."

"Because I am Salgant's son?" Erestor asked.

"Because thou hast made thy despite plain over many years," Glorfindel said levelly.

"I feared I would be as he was." The confession was bitten out. "That in battle I would quail and flee. Or hide." His voice broke on a humorless laugh. "In Gondolin, my hero's were Ecthelion and thee."

"There are many hero's, both sung and unsung, Erestor," Glorfindel murmured, and put out his hand. "Come, we should talk."

It did occasion comment when Erestor began training, but the one person he had believed would revile him did not. Tindómion said nothing at all. Whether he owed that to Glorfindel's influence, Erestor did not know and would not ask. Perhaps the grief-blasted Fëanorion did not even notice. His face was shuttered and remote, only when he sparred with Glorfindel did the fierceness of his anguish show itself.

The age drew on, and when Angmar rose in the north and Imladris suffered siege they fought together, Glorfindel, Tindómion and Erestor. His friendship with Borniven had waned and his duties to Elrond were many. When his old co-conspirator visited the valley, he would not be drawn back into the old acidulous gossip-mongering.

Now he said flatly: "Glorfindel has told me my father remains in Aman, but that my mother is with the fleet in Lindon. I will not leave Middle-earth."

"Neither will I. And that is what brought me to Imladris."

"I do not understand. Didst thou not hear me? I go to the new haven." His calmness unraveled and he growled: "Half my life I tried to convince myself that being a warrior was no great thing, fearing that I possessed no courage - until I saw that sometimes we have to fight, to protect those who cannot. I lived under my father's shadow until that day in Lindon when Rosriel did not weep at her son's death ! I know the greatest enemy: it is hatred, and she had it in abundance !"

"The lady should have been queen after Ereinion's death," Borniven's eyes glittered angrily. "She had many followers, and _still does_ – and I am here to tell thee that she also has returned from the West and will accompany the Noldor to New Cuiviénen. There are those of us who must stand against this new Vala and his Laws, and our new, cursed High King." He spat out the title like pebbles. "None will punish us. She is Fingon's wife."

"Morgoth's bleeding wounds." For a moment Erestor could think of nothing to say and then he laughed. "If it comforts thee to think so, _old friend._ I was at feast tonight and Fingon and Maedhros looked at one another as if they had no appetite for anything else."

A darker blood suffused Borniven's face.  
"He holds her up to shame in public, as he did when she lived?" he sounded outraged. "She is still his wife in the eyes of Eru."

Erestor was deeply troubled. Rosriel had left Lindon at the beginning of the Angmar wars, after living there as the self-appointed queen of an ever-dwindling court. Those who remained of her supporters had gathered about her, but it was little more than pretense. The kingdom had no ruler, indeed there was no true kingdom, more and more Elves left its green hills for the Haven's before taking ship to Valinor. Many of those who wished to remain traveled to Imladris, for the silent villas, the palace, the memories of Lindon's high days evoked memories too bitter. Borniven had neither gone with Rosriel or come to Imladris, and Erestor had wondered if he had enjoyed hating for so long that he could not exist without the cause of it.

He wanted to find Glorfindel and ask him why Rosriel had been permitted to return, but he would be with Legolas now. Surely he had known?

"I heard none speak of her," he said. "And the fleet is great. I doubt Fingon even knew she returned."

"Yes, he would forget her soon enough, no doubt ! Know thou not that all may choose to go to the new haven?" A look of unbearable smugness crossed Borniven's face and Erestor yearned to strike it off. "Many will choose to speak out against these _new laws,_ and they have a right to expect better of their kings and lords than filth and fornication. If thou wilt support the lady Rosriel she will protect thee from Ereinion's anger. This she has promised. If not, then thou art a damned fool, and may take what punishment they decree." He spun on his heel, wrenched back one of the doors and stalked into the night. Erestor, a bloom of temper bursting in his head stepped out after him.

A hand slid over his mouth, another brought his arm behind his back with the suggestion that a hint of pressure could break it. And a voice whispered in his ear, "What punishment should the High King of the Noldor mete out I wonder?"

Erestor felt his blood flare hot and fast through him. His mouth was free now, but he did not struggle. He murmured, "I admit my guilt, Sire. I will accept anything."

"Anything?" Fëanor said. "So be it."

He was ordered to strip, and did so, standing before Fëanor, feeling his skin warm with the exposure to that burning gaze. He watched, gritting his teeth as Fëanor tossed his own clothes aside, pausing only to wrap the buckle-end of his belt about his hand. He had drawn the sliding doors across the long balcony, and the room was dark save for one lamp which cast a golden sheen over their flesh.

"Turn, brace thy hands."

The explosion of pain across Erestor's buttocks was shocking, forcing a groan from him. He closed his eyes, swallowing back more sounds.

"Tell me."

It came out between lashes, all of it, from Gondolin and his youth to the poisoned atmosphere of Lindon, his hatred, rooted in jealousy, of Tindómion,his final betrayal of Gil-galad's wishes. The stroke took his breath and he tensed, his rear feeling fire-hot, and he wanted to cry out, to move, and did not know where to put himself to ease it.

"And yet, thou art a warrior."

"I asked Glorfindel to train me, Sire." He felt the trail of a finger across the width of his shoulders and a shiver whipped down his spine.The touch followed it to the small of his back, then withdrew.

"And he has trained thee well, but not in all things."  
Erestor could not repress the gasp as teeth closed on his shoulder.

"He was right, thou art not like thy father. He would _never_ have allowed me this close to him." A hand slipped about him, ran down to his groin and he drew in a hard, moaning breath. "And later, thou wilt tell me of thy friend and the...Lady Rosriel."

***

He had not slept, few had. When the feast was ended, he had returned to his rooms with his father and they had sat in the dark intimate silence, both of them wrestling with thoughts and emotions that denied rest.

He had been lead to Imladris in the madness of grief, stumbling out of ruin, and come to love the valley. He had made his place, trained and patrolled and ridden out to war, watched as fewer children were born and more Elves departed. He would miss it, he was glad that some would remain.

"I have not truly had a place to call home for so long," his father murmured, as they sipped hot, honeyed wine, and watched the night shadows draw back.

"We will make a home," Tindómion promised and Maglor smiled with a gleam of humor.

"Thou hast never lived with thy family. It is never peaceful. Yet without them, I did not feel complete."

"Father, I have felt what thou felt. It was far deeper than incompleteness."

"Yes," Maglor admitted softly. "It was." His eyes were shining, inward-looking. "Didst thou see everything?"

"I do not know, but I saw Fëanor seduce thee, in Tirion. And that is at the root of thy words, is it not?"

A flush rose like a tide to Maglor's cheeks.  
"It is shameful, is it not?" he spoke with difficulty. "To want my own father?"

"Does Fingolfin not desire him?" Tindómion held the unblinking silver gaze. " _Adar,_ dost thou ask if I am ashamed of thee?"

"I have not deserved thy forgiveness, although thou hast given it. It is only right that thou knowest all my sins."

" _I do not care,_ " Tindómion flashed, gripping his father's shoulders, almost shaking him. "I wanted to hate thee, to kill thee, but no-one, _no-one_ had the right to traduce thee but I. When I heard people look aside at thy name, called me _Fëanorian_ like a curse, it was _they_ I wanted to kill. I am thy son. Glorfindel told me of Fëanor, yet I did not truly understand until I saw him. He is himself. Tell me this, of the acts thou hast done, which holds more guilt? Wanting thy father, or taking the life of innocents?"

Maglor flinched a little under the words. His eyes closed.  
"The unarmed in Doriath – Sirion. Thy mother..."

"And that _should_ shame thee, but the other? Whom did it hurt, what harm was it, save to thy conscience?"

His father shuddered and his lashes rose. "Thou art like him." He sounded wondering. "And what of Gorthaurion? Should I have died rather than allow him to drag me from the shores of death?"

"He knew what he was doing." Tindómion was still uncertain as to what he felt about Vanimórë. In Aman, Glorfindel had said: _He wanted thy father. And he knew he would be punished for releasing him. But at no time did he consider taking Maglor to Númenor, to see him broken and humbled. Part of it was simple lust. A great part. But there was more. In a place of darkness they climbed above evil for a while. it bound them together in ways which cannot be broken._

"He is not Sauron." Tindómion drew his father close. Their cheeks touched. "There is no shame in feeling pleasure."

"I should have died."

" **No.** "

"No. Listen. I was on the brink. I lingered only because I was so afraid of having nothing, not even memories. I could not bear to lose them, my brothers, my father." Maglor's arms locked about his son, and Tindómion felt gentleness under the strength. "I feared extinction, I thought that only while I lived could I hold them, could they still exist as part of my soul. It was not enough. It was better than nothing at all."

"Oh, _adar._ " Sorrow surged in his throat and choked it. He tried to force air past the constriction, wanted to weep for the utter loneliness that his father had endured. "There will be no more partings."

They sank down together onto the padded settle, holding on to one another, silent now, fraught breaths gradually easing. After a time, Maglor slept, muscles relaxing, his eyes opaque as a polished shield. Gently, Tindómion laid him down, watched the peace of the tormented, beautiful face smoothed away.

"I love thee, father." He kissed the high white brow, then rose and walked out into the gardens, crossing them blind-eyed.

He almost walked straight into Erestor and both of them stopped in their tracks. It seemed the councilor was likewise as adrift in his mind, for he started. He looked as if he had just risen from his bed, save that his chambers were otherwhere. His color was high, his hair bed-mussed.

Tindómion nodded a greeting, but his eyes sought the balconies behind him curiously and then flashed back to Erestor. Whose jaw was set and who said, without preface, "All these years and thou said naught."

"About what?"

"That we destroyed Gil-galad's will naming thee his successor should he die."

Tindómion's brows rose in surprise. True, Erestor had taken up the sword in the early years of the Third Age, but his less volatile nature always provided a balance against Glorfindel and Tindómion's martial personalities. It was not like him to speak so baldly. But he seemed shaken out of his self-possession, and in that brief glance behind him, Tindómion guessed why.

"Glorfindel knew – and he told thee. And how did he know?"

"Let me come to thy chambers."

~~~

Erestor poured wine and held out a goblet, then drank his own off quickly, running his fingers back through his hair.

"Well?" he asked, and received a spark-eyed flash of a look.

"Glorfindel came to Lindon to escort me here. I was mad in those days. He spoke to Rosriel."

Erestor began to shake his head and then stilled.  
"And she delighted in telling him, I wager."

Tindómion's mouth hardened. "Yes. And no, he did not tell me, not for a long time. He knew that I could not have been a king. Even had my claim been supported, I could not have ruled. I was not fit. Elrond agreed, I know it."

"Yes, but..."

" _Gil-galad was my king._ I did not care if Middle-earth burned up in fire after he died." Passion ripped through his words. "And later, when Glorfindel told me, I did not care. I saw the change in thee. There was no doubting it, or thy worth to Imladris."

"Gil-galad knows and he too has said nothing. I was going to speak to him this morning. Before witnesses."

"Who told thee?" Tindómion could not resist teasing. He noted the careful way in which Erestor moved and could envy him even the pain. A flaming wind had blown through him, left him burnished by its heat.

"Thou knowest damn well."

" And he punished thee?"

"He will be our High King. It is his right. Yet I will speak before Gil-galad. He may also punish me if he sees fit."

"This interests me exceedingly, Erestor." Tindómion's eyes narrowed. " _Our_ high king? And I would have wagered on thee leaving rather than accept Fëanor as thy ruler."

"Fëanor has appointed me a member of his council. I have accepted."

"Hells, he _must_ be good." It was irresistible.

Suddenly Erestor began to laugh, feckless and shocked, saying, through it: "He beat me. And then...There is no love. One does not love the tempest. But I will follow him."

"He beat thee?"

"It is of no consequence."

"I thou canst not ride it is." Tindómion was amused – and envious. If Gil-galad had come to his chamber, followed him and overcome him as Fëanor had Erestor...

"I will ride." Erestor reached out a hand. It was clasped firmly. "My mother is waiting."

"Thy mother? My own must surely know her." Tindómion watched the stirred, bright face. "Thou hast not named the other in thy triad of treachery. Rosriel we know. And Glorfindel knows the other."

The flurried smiled faded. "It is for him to admit it. I will not say."

Tindómion lifted his shoulders. "Very well. If I may advise thee?"

"I would be glad of it."

"I do not know how to assuage that particular pain, but there were times I asked Glorfindel to scourge me, to focus my soul's pain elsewhere. A bath may help both. Come, I will find some unguent."

Had any-one told him long ago that he might share a bath with Erestor and speak of desire and the hot delights of love, he would have deemed them a fool. A wary regard had come to exist between them but nothing more. The Fëanorion had noted however, that Erestor had said nothing against Glorfindel and Legolas' love. Either he respected Glorfindel too much, or he no longer concerned himself with such matters. Perhaps both.

When Erestor lay down and Tindómion unstopped a jar of green ointment, he frowned at the scarlet marks. Those were not the strokes of a love-game.

"He did not spare thee, did he?" Tindómion smoothed the unguent over the wheals. "I never considered thee a coward, Erestor, only too entangled in Rosriel's coils, carrying the weight of thy fathers acts – I know it well. And I know that alone thou essayed the leap from Ravenroost, after turning away the first time."

"How?" Erestor turned his head. "Now, how dost thou know that?"

"I saw thee. Knowest thou why _I_ jumped?" At the brief head-shake he smiled wryly. "I was aroused by Gil. I was ashamed of it, believed he would look on me with repugnance. I was naked, there was nowhere else to hide."

Erestor laughed. "Why wert thou there? I saw no-one."

"I wanted to know if I could do it alone. When I saw thee dive, I turned back. Thou art not thy father, never were."

"I was jealous of thee. I desired Gil." Erestor loosed a breath. "He never knew. I would never have revealed it. I believed myself cursed by my father's cowardice. But I saw him look at thee, that day in the great hall, and I hated thee and envied thee."

"There was nothing to envy," Tindómion murmured.

"Was the love of Gil-galad not a thing to envy?"

"Oh yes." And he said, low, " _The blood that runs between us..._ "

Erestor cast him a quick glance.  
"I saw Fingon and Maedhros in the hall. Rosriel waits with the fleet."

" _What?_ " Then the silver eyes became as light focused through a burning-glass. "Perhaps then, some old wrongs can be put aright."

***

The blue sky lapped the land from Lindon to Rhovannion. The winter sun fell in pale gilt on the waterfalls of Imladris, the bronze leaves of the Greenwood's beech trees, and on the golden boughs of Lórien's mallorns. In the distant forests, the rulers raised their heads to listen to the news from beyond the world, told in Glorfindel's voice, while their minds filled with images. For some nothing would change, others, whom had never desired to leave Middle-earth felt a weight easing from them, a hope unfurling. They were of the world, and though the ages could still bring weariness, the One had said they were woven into Arda. They might fade into legend, but they would remain at one with the world they loved.

Glorfindel removed himself gently from their minds, all their minds, every Elf who dwelled in Middle-earth from the shores of the seas to dark forests in lands he had never known. They were not forgotten. They were known. And loved.

The sun illuminated Legolas as he lay on his stomach on the bed, head on his arms, the swathe of wheaten hair his only covering. Softly, Glorfindel drew it aside, exposing the long line of his back, the taut buttocks and ran a finger down his spine. Tiny dust-motes clung to the Elf's thick lashes as he blinked and stirred against the sheets.

"I spoke to Thranduil." Glorfindel moved to straddle his lover, let him feel the pressure of his arousal against the cleft of that delectable rear, and Legolas gasped and writhed pressing his own hardness deep into the down-filled mattress.

"He feels free." Glorfindel's voice deepened with lust. "He has ever been independent. And now, he knows that his beloved son will never be punished for the iniquity our joining."

"I _wanted_ you, nothing could have forced me to deny _this._ " Legolas' fingers curled into the sheets and he bucked against Glorfindel. "I want you now."

Glorfindel raised himself, and Legolas turned onto his back, his thighs sliding apart. The rosy, wanton look of him, warrior and beauty, shameless with desire, was too intoxicating to be denied. He claimed Legolas, as on so many other times and each one a breaking storm, the fire of the Noldor the wind-wildness of the Wood-Elves clashing melding in something savage and glorious. Music. Pleasure to the edge of madness.

Legolas looked too tempting, disheveled, sleek with the mist of perspiration gleaming on his taut muscles, aglow with sex. Glorfindel had to get up for a moment to say what he must and not be diverted. He exhaled and pushed his hands back through his hair.

"Be careful of Fëanor," he said, holding the wide, bright eyes and saw Legolas smile, sweet and sated. "I mean it."

He sat up, his expression growing serious. "Fëanor? Truly?" His brows drew into a frown. He knelt and reached out a hand, tracing his fingertips over soft skin, steel muscle.  
"He also wants you, admit it."

"Yes." Glorfindel felt his sinews clench at the touch, the swift onset of a desire which never slumbered. He understood Fëanor well enough, Fëanor who was the fire which ignited so many, destroyed so many. He did not want that flame touching Legolas.  


"I am jealous."

Legolas looked up through his lashes, his smile oddly complicated. Glorfindel stepped back and spun on his heel into the bathing chamber. He slammed up the lever, letting hot water spume from the pipes and pour over him.

Lithe hands touched his back, gathered his hair and pushed it over one shoulder. He felt the rub of a soaped cloth.

"I wanted you," Legolas said. "I was young. Virgin. Confused, but I did want you. It is impossible to resist such power, Glorfindel; I know."

"I wanted to bind thee to me before any other could." Glorfindel turned. "Strange that Fëanor wanted exactly the same."

"Why would Fëanor want me?" Legolas asked, teasingly. "I have seen the way he looks at others – and you. You have told me yourself how the _Golodhrim_ viewed those Elves who remained in Middle-earth, seeing them as inferior."

Glorfindel watched the water run in gold rivulets over Legolas' body, drenching his hair to his waist.  
"Fëanor is a creator and has an eye for beauty." He lifted a hand to one of the wood-Elf's pierced nipples, ran his thumb over the numb and his smile was predatory as he watched it harden. Legolas eyes darkened.  
"Death, rebirth...it does not change what we are, it does not smooth out the marks on our souls, it does not make us anew. We do not forget. No-one can live as we have lived and ever be innocent again. We saw too much, we did too much. Sometimes, to offset pain, we are driven on dark paths to pleasure, for innocence is lost to us, We lance our spirit's wounds in any way we can."

"Yes." Legolas' breathing became deeper as Glorfindel flicked the metal ring. His head tipped back, his lips were parted.

"And yet sometimes we crave what we lost, when we were as children." He could feel his burgeoning need again and forced out the words before it bore him away. "When I saw thee, tasted thee, it was like drinking from a hidden pool of spring water. I wanted to drink every drop, bathe in it, let it wash over the wounds within me. It is exactly what Vanimórë Gorthaurion needs from Elgalad. It is what I need from thee."

Legolas smiled with closed eyes. "And I know what I need also, Golden One."

Glorfindel heard himself growl deep in his throat as he dropped his head, his tongue teasing over the beringed nipples, nipping one gently, pulling on the metal. He felt the quiver, heard the moan of pleasure.

"I need it now." The words came rough.

***

"I need good counselors." Fëanor braided back his hair, looking past his reflection in the glass. "Glorfindel told me that Erestor was balanced enough to prove a good one."

"Is that how thou wilt test all thy counselors, then? Binding them to thee thou didst bind me?" Fingolfin's eyes burned silver white, his beautiful face tinted with rage. Fëanor suddenly whirled.

"I called for thee."

"And I told thee it cannot be," Fingolfin hissed.

"Then why art thou so _jealous?_ " On the word he sprang, locking one arm about Fingolfin, the other hand grasping a swathe of hair. "Thou _knowest_ me, I am not changed. I _live_ , I _need._ And I need _thee._ "

He kissed like fire and fury. A new body recreated from the soul's memory of the old. His brother's response was starfire to his own wildfire. They came together like starving wolves, and fractured words burst in staccato counterpoints, in their minds or from their mouths, neither could tell.

_How couldst thou leave me and die?_  
I watched thee, beautiful and valorous, shining under his hate...  
I saw thee with my last vision...  
Magnificent in death...  
I hated thee for dying! I hated thee, and loved thee...  
I always wanted thee my Nolofinwë, thou art mine!  
They clashed together, both of them fully hard, straining with gasps and groans for closer contact, greater friction. Fëanor knew the taste of Fingolfin's mouth, the flesh of his throat, the scent of him, remembered every searing moment of their couplings. He gripped the sleek handful of hair and pulled, watching the strong column of the neck stretch.

"Thou doth deny _thyself,_ if thou wouldst deny me."

"I must deny us both then." Fingolfin spoke through kiss-bruised lips. "There are some laws we break at our peril."

"Damn the laws." Fëanor abruptly released his half-brother, spun to stand behind him, jerking him back. He ground against the hard curve of Fingolfin's buttocks, and heard the hiss through clenched white teeth.

"I always loved thy resistance." He bent his head and set his lips to the white skin, drawing back the collar so that the love-flower he planted might be hidden until it faded. His free hand slid down over the tumescence under the close fitting breeches and cupped it. Fingolfin writhed and bit out something half-curse, half-moan, then kicked back with one foot, hard against Fëanor's shin. Freeing himself, he turned like a fighter who faces an ancient enemy.

"I will resist thee. I have to, for more than mine own sake or thine, but for the sake of our sons and theirs."

"Our sons and theirs, they _know_ this, Nolofinwë. Where was it birthed if not with us? And I wish thee to tell me now of the woman thy son married; she and the others who believe _this_ is wrong." He watched Fingolfin's face show rage and guilt at his own hand in that bitter marriage and said dangerously: "Yes, I anticipate laying down _my_ laws, with much pleasure."

He was satisfied with Fingolfin's instant response, had seen it in his eyes, but he needed to touch him, know it through his flesh, this new flesh over an ancient soul. He would be High King, as he had been born to be, and he wanted to see his people free. So he said, "Come, sit down. Thou art not my adviser, for thou art High Prince, and above such titles, but thou wilt work with me. So tell me all." He gestured to the settle and held out his hand. " _Come,_ Nolofinwë. I wish to know why two of my sons had to lie in secret with thy son's wife when she was wed." Laughter burned through his eyes. "Never would I have believed thou wouldst participate in such duplicity." But the words were teasing.

"Why is she permitted to come?" Fingolfin demanded, ignoring the question. "Hells, I thought that was over and done with. Our own wives ignored us, and it is better so. I am guilty of Fingon's marriage and his unhappiness is on my head. Rosriel never loved him. Why would she come?"

"New Cuiviénen is the Noldor haven in Ennorath, any-one may come." Fëanor made the words a subtle threat. "But should they choose to, beloved brother," Fëanor came close and kissed him wildly on the mouth. "They will abide by _my_ laws."

"And thy laws will be?"

Fëanor laughed. "For one, that _this_ will never be denounced, or a matter for shame." As swiftly, the amusement faded. "Nelyafinwë was traduced even after his death, as was thine eldest son. I have heard that those voices were strident in their clacking of the Valar's Laws. Rosriel's was one of the loudest. Erestor has told me she thought herself a queen. I wish to silence those voices, Nolofinwë. I will shame those who would cast shame upon others, an they cross me." He threw himself on the settle and spread his hands. "So come, my sinful, beautiful brother. _Talk to me._ " ~


	7. ~ Ages Of Love And Hate ~

 

  
~ “I told them that there is no punishment for those who love their own gender. I have touched the mind of every Elf from Ingwë to the hidden Avari of the east.” Glorfindel announced to the room. “Those who choose to come to New Cuiviénen know that it is no offense, indeed in the eyes of the One it never was.”  
  
They had come to the hall of Fire, the Finwions, Glorfindel and Legolas, Elrond, his sons, and Erestor. The councilor had told them of Borniven, and of Rosriel's return, and had said that she would not accept annulment.  
  
Fingon looked at Glorfindel. “I did not despise or shame Rosriel, but I could not love her. And certes, she never loved me !”  
  
“I know,” Glorfindel nodded. “Thou couldst never have loved another.”  
  
Fingolfin laid a hand on his son's shoulder. “I often wondered if thy precipitate journey to see Maedhros after the betrothal was the birth of her hatred.”  
  
“No,” Glorfindel stated somberly. “She married for ambition, pushed by her father.”  
  
“It would have been worse if she had indeed married for love.” Fingolfin looked at his eldest nephew, the sun limning the copper locks with golden fire. Maedhros' arms were folded tight over his breast, his eyes hard as polished pewter and as opaque. “I thought being of Mahtan's blood, there might be something in her like thee, that at least she and my son could reach an accord with respect and some liking.”  
  
“She loathed my brothers and I and made it plain,” Maedhros said, then: “Thou didst not prevent him from coming to me, uncle, and thou couldst have made it an order from the High King.”  
  
Fingolfin shook his head. “He agreed to wed at my behest. I had neither the right nor the desire to prevent him going to thee. I was not aware she so hated thee. Her father is cousin to Mahtan and I knew he had a grudge against thee, brother." He looked at Fëanor, who raised his brows. “A few times he attempted to speak against thee personally. I would not permit that, and so he said naught else.”  
  
“He would not, he was not that courageous.” Glorfindel smiled. “We all knew that thou wouldst hear nothing against he or his sons. But I know now that to his family, his companions, he reviled Fëanor. His daughter was raised on that. And of course, she saw the love between thee and Fingon.”  
  
Fëanor said, drawing all eyes to him effortlessly, “The marriage is invalid.” He raised a brow to Fingolfin, who said,  
“Maglor and I witnessed the vows between our sons', that is true.”  
  
“Father gave me a ring he had made for thee.” Fingon traced a design in the air. “Rubies shaped like fire. I gave it to Maedhros. And he gave me one thou hadst fashioned for him on his coming of age. Our marriage could not openly be acknowledged, Hells, we even lived hundreds of leagues apart !” At his uncle's look of impatience, he said hotly, “We wanted to change the laws, but our people were already under a doom, and we could not afford any more schisms!” He was too well-bred to point out who was the cause of the rifts between the Noldor, and the tilt of Fëanor's mouth acknowledged it.  
  
“Had we come to a world of peace, matters would have been different,” Fingolfin said. “I should never have told thee I had seen my death, but we needed to be united.”  
  
“No, father, thou wert right to tell me, I had a duty – but I did not wish to believe it.” Fingon lifted his hand to clasp it over Fingolfin's. They were a tactile clan, the Finwions, and their death and doom demanded this closeness now, these caresses of love and reassurance.  
  
“The ring of flame?” If Fëanor looked at him like that, Fingolfin thought, all the room would know of their past relationship. It was hard to drag his eyes away from the smiling gleam even in public. In private it was a moment-by-moment battle. Yet they had both learned caution and control in Tirion, allowing and sometimes beginning the rumors of enmity between them. It had been necessary, both for their positions and to spare their father. The pretended coldness and antipathy between them had been as exciting as the fierce, forbidden passion in locked rooms, and hidden groves. He said, as a thrill flicked, whip-like through him, “The wedding vows called on Eru, not on the Valar, and we know now it was valid. But Rosriel did not enter into the marriage knowing it. We duped her.”  
  
“But she did not love him.” Fëanor pulled his gaze back by sheer power. “Under my laws an annulment will be easy enough.”  
  
“It is not the marriage, father,” Gil-galad said strongly. “It was never the marriage ! I suffered enough guilt trying to love her and being unable to. She smeared filth on the names of those I loved, until those whom had never known thee believed thy deaths were justice too long delayed.”  
  
“She did not grieve at thy death or Fingon's, indeed she felt only rage, or as one whom has lost a game,” Glorfindel interposed, the cool words barely concealing his own anger. “I knew it when I went to Lindon to bring Istelion back. I saw her, it needed no power to guess her feelings. Thou needst not be concerned at hurting her.”  
  
“I believe it.” Gil-galad pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, caught back words that no son should say of their mother. He felt a hand come to rest warmly on his back, and knew without looking that it was Tindómion's. “She never wept for thee _adar !_ ”  
  
Fingon moved, touched the pained, passionate face tenderly.  
“ _I_ love thee. How could she not have loved a child so fine, so loving?” His gaze shifted Tindómion, whose expression was deep and vivid. “She called thee to give public account of thyself, wanted thee to abdicate... Hells, the Valar had a good mouthpiece in her !” He slipped his fingers behind Gil-galad's neck and kissed his brow. “I swear she will never do such again !”  
  
“She will try,” Erestor warned. “She wishes to be a ruling queen. If she cannot be that, then it will be as it was before, she will gather those to her who believe such love as thou, my lord, do bear for Prince Maedhros is filthy.” He was blushing.  
  
“I want her to tell me that,” Fëanor's wonderful voice came soft and ominous as an approaching storm. “I want her to tell my why she will not accept the annulment, why she deserves to remain wed to my nephew, whom she did not love.” He came to Fingolfin's side and put an arm about his neck in a flamboyant, affectionate gesture which might have been purely brotherly.  
“It goes against my nature to wait, but when we reach our New Cuiviénen all such matters will be dealt with.” Under the music of his voice they heard the cauldron of anger, half-lidded at the moment. “The marriage must be annulled before me.” He looked at his eldest son. “And thine own vows will be publicly taken before thy father and myself.”  
  
“What will the grounds for annulment be, father?” Maedhros asked.  
  
Fëanor moved to the table and picked up his winecup.  
“If the love has gone, if the pair no longer wish to live together and one or both would wed again. But I doubt there will be many. Hast thou not noted the new life which is in us, even those who departed out of weariness of these lands?” He laughed. “The Valar told us that we wearied of intercourse, that desire faded and we believed them – most of us ! Our minds turned to other things, anything save the glory of sharing our bodies, yet we know that is not true.” A vein of lightning seemed to pass between his eyes and Fingolfin's before both pairs vanished under downswept black lashes. “Yet it is also unfair for a wife or husband to wish to remain married yet deny intimacy. And now,” his gaze rose to Glorfindel. “We have one who may see into the soul, do we not?”  
  
“Yes,” Glorfindel responded dryly. “I see into the soul, Fëanor.”  
He received a sword-edge smile for his words.  
  
“If Rosriel approaches me in Mithlond, I must in good conscience tell her that our marriage is at an end,” Fingon looked at Maedhros.  
  
“She will speak out,” his son warned.  
  
“Let her.” Fingon suddenly blazed. “She tried to part us when thou wert but a child! She tried to use thee as a game-piece. Baesel and Borin can bear witness to what she did. She neglected thee, told thee I was too busy to be bothered by my own child ! She poured filth on the names and memories of those I loved. I no longer have to endure it. I will not openly humiliate her, but...”  
  
“Speak for thyself alone,” came swiftly from Celegorm.  
  
“Hush, beloved,” Maedhros reached out and laid his fingers over Fingon's lips. “Nothing she said or did even touched the edges of our love, or that which we felt for Gil.”  
  
Fingon's breast rose and fell, his eyes sparking dangerously, then his teeth closed over Maedhros' white fingertips in a sensuous, angry lover's gesture. “ _But,_ I will not permit her venom any longer,” he ended.  
  
“Peace.” Fëanor's eyes were hot and amused. “Thou didst not consummate the marriage. By the old laws Rosriel is, in truth, married to my second son.”  
  
“Father !” Maglor flushed to his hairline and Caranthir expostulated: “We did it for Maedhros, for Fingon! I do not regret the act !”  
  
“We cannot tell her how she was deceived. It would not be honorable,” Maglor protested.  
  
“I but jest, that law – or custom will also be dispensed with, to lie with some-one need not mean marriage. We may have lovers without binding our souls.” A small, sensuous smile curled Fëanor's mouth as he looked at his second-born. “I will not see thee sacrificed. But honor runs both ways, Canafinwë. If she shows none, then I shall not.” He caught Tindómion in the clasp of his eyes. “Thou didst inherit his chivalry, it seems, for thou didst not reveal it either.”  
His grandson shook his head.  
“I came close, but no, I could not, Sire. She would not have believed me anyhow. That I dreamed my father's life? And after Gil died...she ceased to matter.”  
  
“She may simply return to Tol Eressëa,” Maedhros suggested but his expression indicated he did not believe it and Erestor said: “Borniven will advise her to hold her hand.”  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
The Havens had been busy since the Noldors' arrival. There were many supplies that would be needed for such a long journey and the quaysides were a bustle of activity day and night. Some of the Noldor remained on the ships, others lodged in the villas and houses of Mithlond. Already they were gathering to the lords they had served, the great houses they had belonged to. There was rivalry for precedence and not a few arguments. Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain, found the business focused his mind, helped to him ground himself into this new reality. Once warden of the Seventh Gate of Gondolin and, with Glorfindel, Lieutenant of Turgon, he was used to command, to order and set about planning his own household. In this work he could try and push aside the unpalatable knowledge that Glorfindel had found another another lover.  
  
 _We were in love in Tirion, before we were ever intimate. But should Fëanor have been able to break something we believed so strong? Yet we were lovers and friends until the end. And he betrayed me and I betrayed him, because we were no longer in love..._  
He put down his quill, thinking of that one, who had not been in Valinor, nor upon Tol Eressëa. He had not been condemned to the Void, or come forth from the Halls of Mandos, which could only mean he had never died and dwelt somewhere upon Middle-earth. Glorfindel would know, but Ecthelion was too proud to ask. He was, he told himself, grateful that the young man – and he had been young and unknowing when Ecthelion had taken him – had escaped the Valars' punishment, survived Gondolin's fall and made himself a new life somewhere. He remembered his own uncontrolled lust, the youth's response, Glorfindel's startled anger...  
  
 _“If thou wouldst lay blame, lay it upon me!” he had cried, and with vicious satisfaction, “Is the boot on the other leg now, **lover?**_ ”  
  
They had almost come to blows that day, but both knew that it would be impolitic for Turgon's two Lieutenants to be at odds. And they still wanted one another.  
It had not been the desire for revenge that had driven Ecthelion, however, simply...desire.  
  
 _Yes, Fëanor changed us..._  
  
“Amarthurin*.” He savored the syllables on his tongue as once he had savored the youth's mouth and body.  
  
Ecthelion had burned and died. He had felt his soul hurled into place of emptiness, where malevolent presences stalked him laughing, showing him the ruin that followed. Glorfindel's death had hurt him as fiercely as Gothmog's fire, and after that he had seen only what Morgoth chose to reveal. All was blood, desolation and death. Yet Ecthelion was valiant, he held his defiance to his spirit like a shield, his shield which once had been encrusted with shining crystals. It seemed an eternity of black despair, yet those who had condemned them to Night had never realized how intense was the fire within the Elves. They would not easily fade to extinction.  
  
And then came light – a light which sent the mocking dark reeling back in impotent rage, and life. A new life.  
A life, he thought, not so very different to the old.  
He had looked at Glorfindel and seen what he was, transfigured, golden fire within golden flesh, a Power, had seen his mate, a lithe Elf with hair the color of harvested wheat, a face molded of alabaster. Glorfindel's voice had said, unwontedly soft, into his mind: _I love him. I love thee, also, as a soul-bonded brother._  
  
Ecthelion had preserved an impassive mien.  
 _I cannot hate thee – or he, for loving,_ he had replied and that was true, but he could and did feel anger, primarily directed towards Fëanor. Whom would be their king.  
  
He glanced up from the table as some-one tapped lightly on the door of his chamber.  
  
“Enter.”  
A woman came in, and he rose. She was shrouded in a cloak, her face hidden but for a drift of dark hair which had been blown from the hood by the freshening sea-wind.  
  
As she lowered her hood, he saw the pale eyes, the sable hair. In Vinyamar she had been given the name, Cúraniel, daughter of the curved moon. She was also the daughter of Egalmoth, lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch, and wife of Salgant who had fled from battle to hide upon his bed.  
  
So many were the Noldor whom had chosen to return to Middle-earth that only Glorfindel knew all of them as yet. Ecthelion, busy with the people of his own house, the preparations for the long voyage, had not known that she was here.  
  
“Lady.” He took her hand, raising her from her reverence. “ Please sit.”  
  
Outside the house, gulls squabbled and wheeled on a the sharp wind. Ecthelion poured a cup of hot wine and handed it to her.  
  
“Forgive me, I do not yet know all those who have returned. I have seen Egalmoth, of course.”  
  
“My son is here.” Cúraniel's voice was faintly challenging. “Lord Glorfindel spoke to me of him. He believes Erestor will come to New Cuiviénen.”  
  
“Glorfindel should surely know his heart,” Ecthelion replied, a whit dryly.  
  
“He has told me of my son's life. Many things were not to his credit, but others are.” She clasped her hands. “Thou must know of my husband's cowardice?”  
  
“I have heard the full tale of Gondolin's fall,” he nodded. He had both heard it and seen it in his imprisonment.  
  
“Courage is not something we are born with,” Cúraniel murmured. “Salgant may have been fitted for ease and peace, and there is no wrong in that, but when he deserted, he betrayed people who might have been saved.” Her light eyes flashed upward. “He ran past me, accoutered in priceless armor, and lay upon his bed. He would not heed my pleas even to search for our son.”  
  
“Lady, what happened to thee?” Ecthelion asked gently.  
  
“The house was stormed by many orcs,” she said expressionlessly. “I saw them come, from the doorway. They killed me. I think it was very...quick.”  
  
Ecthelion took her hand. She had stood fast and met them, casting her own coin of courage before their feet. And it had been a coin of no small worth.  
  
“Salgant would not come. But I have, and I hope to embrace my son again.”  
  
A voice spoke in his mind, and he looked toward the window.  
“I think thou may have that chance now.”  
  
~~~  
  
The Elves stopped their work and conversations and gathered to greet the arrivals as they dismounted in a swirl of long hair and cloaks. Some of those from Imladris spied those they had known long ago and ran to greet them. One of those was Erestor, whose eyes scanned the crowd, and were captured by his mother's longing gaze like a magnet. He caught her hard against him, and the memory of his last sight of her opened and bled like a fresh wound.  
  
“ _Naneth !_ ” he gasped into her hair, and felt her arms about him and her body shaking. When at last she stood back to look at him tears glazed her face, but she was smiling, as she linked her arm into his and drew him away.  
  
“Wait, Erestor!” The irrefusable voice spoke at his elbow and he turned, color winging into his face. “This is thy mother, I think. Thou hast the look of her.”  
  
Cúraniel began to sink into obeisance, a startled expression on her face, but Fëanor raised her at once.  
“I have heard of thy sons bravery during the wars here against one of Sauron's greatest servants,” he said. “Yet he is said to be offer wise council, also, therefore I have appointed him to my council in the new haven. I hope thou wilt make one of our court, lady.”  
  
He gave her son public approval and banished shame from both of them with those few words. She said, faintly, “Sire, thou art generous.” Which earned her a blazing smile and Erestor a glance which left him breathless.  
  
“Come,” he said to his mother. “Let us have some wine, where doth thou stay?”  
  
“With my father,” she said. “I will take thee to him, for he wishes to know his grandson.” A wondering pause and then. “So that is Fëanor? And he has chosen thee as one of his councilors?” Her eyes shone. “I am proud of thee.”  
  
“Not all my acts have been praiseworthy,” he warned feeling a the heat in his cheeks.  
  
“Lord Glorfindel has told me much.” She nipped his arm gently. “But thou hast redeemed thyself.”  
  
“Not enough,” he said. “But I will, and there will be much to do.”  
  
“Thou hast redeemed thyself and the shame of thy father.” Her voice was firm as she walked with him down the quay. Neither of them looked toward one of the ships rocking gently at anchor where a woman stood, swathed in a rich cloak, her face bright with hate.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
“They dare not!”  
In the cabin of the great ship, Rosriel dropped her cloak. “They _dare not_ send me back to Tol Eressëa. I am his wife !”  
  
“There will be new laws, lady,” Borniven warned. “I heard it being spoken of in Imladris. The annulment of marriages...”  
  
“That cannot be! It is against Valarin Law !”  
  
“Which Valar?” Her advisor asked, and her face tightened.  
  
“I do not believe any of this !” She twisted the gold band on her finger. It was not the one Fingon had given her long ago, but she had worn a wedding band since her marriage. She was wife to a former king and mother to another and no-one might take that from her. “Once bound before the One, a marriage may not be annulled !”  
  
“So I believe also, lady, but remember who will be king in this new realm,” Borniven urged. “Take my advice and say naught until we are there. Many will follow us, many agree with us. We may do much, we are not alone, remember – but if we are sent back to Valinor then we can do naught.”  
  
After a moment, Rosriel nodded agreement, her eyes narrowed against the light coming in the portals.  
  
“And Ereinion? Has he been...” She licked her lips as if at an unpleasant taste. “Is he with that baseborn Fëanorion?”  
  
“He was lodged with his father, lady. But he speaks to thy son, and they...”  
  
“What?” she snapped.  
  
“They _flirt,_ ” Borniven said with distaste. To him it was obvious, although there was little physical contact.  
  
Rosriel's made a motion as if she were gathering spittle, and her companion wondered distantly that hate could so disfigure beauty. He had never desired her, but she had given him the power and influence he should have had in Gondolin, had it's warriors defended it and not let it fall. He would have followed Maeglin, but Maeglin had proved traitor. Borniven had been forced to make his own place, and had found that place when he attached himself to Rosriel's court, but he had been mistaken in her influence. She had alienated Gil-galad, a foolish move; the High King had had a mind of his own and too many supporters. Now Borniven would have to keep Rosriel under his eye and see she did not lock horns with the new king before she had established herself in New Cuiviénen. Like her, did not believe that the old laws could easily be overthrown, that whatever her husband's wishes, she would take her place once again as his wife. But would that give her power? He must think on it, see what rivalries formed in their new land.  
  
“And Erestor is to be a councilor to mad Fëanor,” she muttered, biting her lip.  
  
“He has changed a great deal.”  
  
“Then he can change again. In fact...Erestor as a councilor may work in our favor,” Rosriel turned in a rustle of silk. “Let us make plans. Pour me wine. It did not take Fëanor long to get himself killed in Ennorath, and Fingolfin threw his life away...”  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Maglor reached out one hand and laced his fingers through those of his brother's. Maedhros' right hand, severed by Fingon long ago, was whole. The silence around swelled and strained with love, regret and sorrow  
  
“How didst thou live?” Maedhros asked softly.  
  
“As thou didst, after Fingon died.”  
  
“That is not living.” After a moment he whispered, “I am sorry.”  
  
“I understood.” Maglor's expression shook like the wind-fretted sea.  
  
They embraced one another. Maglor's eyes closed against the soft waves of his brother's hair. It smelled of winter and the tang of brine.  
  
 _It still hurts..._  
  
 _I know. It always will..._  
  
They drew apart, looked at one another for a long moment, until a quiet, “My lords?” brought their head about. The man who proffered the tray of hot wine had eyes the color of thunderclouds, a proud countenance, but under it he bore the deep soul-scars of all the Exiles.  
  
“Faerbol.” Maedhros warmly greeted the man who had been a close friend of his in Tirion. Fëapolda, he had been called before the Noldor took Sindarin names.  
  
“My lord,” he bent his head. “And my Lord Maglor. I wished to speak with thee.”  
  
“Thou needst not ask.” Maglor was surprised. He felt his brother's eyes on him with love and compassion. Was he so very obvious, he wondered.  
  
“I have spoken to Lord Glorfindel,” Faerbol said quietly. “Of Gorthaur's son.”  
  
Maedhros rose and laid a hand on Maglor's shoulder. His fingers tightened in support for a moment, before he walked silently away, and Faerbol sat down, his profile pale against the darkening sky.  
“Morgoth slew me.” His voice was even. “Gorthaurion came to me. He stayed with me when I died.”  
  
 _Rhovannion. A dry night in late summer, violet eyes shining through the dark..._  
  
Maglor felt again the cauldron of hate and confusion simmering within him. Vanimórë's voice slid into his mind, honed like the twin blades he bore, smooth as old wine. For a moment he smelled the scent of sandalwood, heard the low laughter, the words...  
 _“When I was very young, in Angband...I knew him as Valóron at first, then he gave me his lore name, Fëapolda. And he was well named that.”_  
  
“He was so young. I never knew whom he was. One of our people, I thought, captured as a child – I could guess what they wanted him for – but he did not escape them, did he? I did, in dying.”  
  
“Ai no,” Maglor closed his eyes. “ _Faerbol!_ ” No-one had told him, although they had guessed the fate of those never found, that they were taken to Angband.  
  
“I speak to thee because we are both victims – as was he.” Their eyes met, both holding that same knowledge. “He saved thee, I wish I could thank him, for what he did, for holding me through my last breaths.”  
  
Maglor said, through pain: “My friend, thou art not healed, why didst thou come back?”  
  
“Thou art not healed either.” There was no answer to that. “I walked long in the gardens of Lórien before I was united again with my wife and son. I am healed – adequately, and my loyalty is unchanged.” He turned his head. “Glorfindel told me of the hate thou dost bear Gorthaurion.”  
  
“Wouldst thou be his advocate?”  
  
“I saw him as a youth on the edge of adulthood. I was his first teacher in weaponry.” Faerbol spoke carefully, as if walking over the cat-ice which skinned his wounds. “He was already marked for pain, but he was courageous and beautiful. He was – is – nothing like _them._ ”  
  
Maglor rose, looking into the ember skies of the west, his throat choked with the complexity of his emotions.  
“How canst thou know what he became?” he asked, yet knowing that Vanimórë could indeed have carried out his orders and taken Maglor to Númenor. The thought brought a chill with it, and a shudder wracked through him.  
  
“Lord Glorfindel has told me, and my lord Maedhros speaks of him with gratitude. Yet there is hate in thee.”  
  
“I cannot speak of it, forgive me,” Maglor spoke hastily before his temper snapped. He feared what he might reveal, feared his father knowing. There were too many things he could not control. Fëanor's reaction might be that of a father..Or a lover. And if it were the latter..?  
The world without Fëanor had been like an unlit palace, beautiful and chill. Now the fire was lit once more and he was pulled irresistibly toward it. He wanted to touch, embrace, be close to it, to know beyond doubt that his father was indeed returned, that he was not mad again. And that was dangerous ground. Yet when he turned from that fire he found himself facing another, which had burned up in the darkest place, violet eyes, hands hard and gentle, relentless seduction.  
  
 _Helplessness. Hatred. Desire..._  
  
“Forgive me.” Faerbol was looking at him with concern.  
  
“There is nothing to forgive. I cannot bear to think of thee, or any of our people in Morgoth's power.” _Because I know. I know._  
  
“There were many of us.”  
  
Maglor pressed the heel of his hands over his closed eyes for a moment, then turned and gripped Faerbol's shoulders.  
“I would thank him for being with thee at the last. Yes, that I would do.”  
  
“But not for thine own release, my lord?”  
  
He thought of dim lamplight sliding over muscle, waves of hair, the touches, his resistance and rage, and then the pleasure – body and mind passing the point of struggle, of pain, releasing him from all memories.  
  
 _Mine own release?_  
  
He had told himself that his self-loathing would be unbearable had he known that the strange seducer was Sauron's son.  
  
And in the depths of his soul he knew it would not have mattered.  
  
The last color was weeping from the sky. He stirred, pushing himself from memories which would not be forgotten.  
  
“He never told me who he was, because he believed I would loathe him, so lord Glorfindel said,” Faerbol's voice was quiet. “So young then, and so alone. I am glad he is free at last.”  
  
Maglor thought he would choke. With a flying touch to the other's arm he turned and strode inside.  
  
 _“So beautiful, thou art.”  
There was no elusive mockery in the voice in the darkness, as if night cleansed it of all pretenses.  
Maglor always fought, cursed, used words learned from the olive-skinned Eastern Men which evoked appreciative laughter. He wrestled, twisted, struck out, but his body and spirit were still shocked by the torments visited upon them, and he was not strong enough to fight the strange thrall. And part of him, that traitor deep within, did not want to. He sought the opposite side of the pain, the terrifying pleasure that he had never known, the ecstasy that left him shaking, sated and able to slip into dreams of other days._  
  
 _So beautiful, thou art,_  
  
Far away, Vanimórë sat back against a tree-bole. There was no fire lit, and Elgalad's head rested against his chest. He spoke to the one in his arms no less than the Fëanorion, who slammed shut the door of the room and leaned against it, as the rising gale moaned about the white houses of Mithlond. Vanimórë felt Maglor's goaded cry, and smiled over silver hair. He understood, and had he been with Maglor would have kissed him, until he forgot his hate and rage in desire. Maglor would not be harmed by him, by what he needed; it was the one lying sweetly against him that he must protect from himself.  
He kissed the soft hair and felt Elgalad's arms tighten about him. He knew Maglor's need to touch and to hold, for it was also in him, to reassure himself that Elgalad lived. Vanimórë restrained himself with a control formed over ages, and only Glorfindel knew how much sheer effort of will it took. It would be too easy to accept the offering, the unconditional love, and – he _wanted!_  
  
He was rigid with his hunger, even Elgalad's gentle breathing, the light movement of his fingers were temptation. He sighed, knowing, from a long life of control, that at some time he would have to give rein to his desires or go irredeemably mad.  
  
 _I will not take thee again until thou doth wish it,_ he smiled into Maglor's mind because he loved the spice of that hate, the furious explosion his teasing sparked.  
  
 _I will never wish it!_  
  
It was reprehensible to laugh at some-one so clearly tormented, Vanimórë admitted, but that was one thing at least they could share. ~  
  
  
  
~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amarthurin is an OC created by Amaranth, whose stories were going to interweave with mine, as they are set in the same AU. His first passionate encounter with Ecthelion is written of here The Elf in the Mirror and more will be forthcoming. Amaranth has said I might reference him and the story. Please note, like my own work, hers is NC17 M/M slash.


	8. ~ Splinters Of The Past ~

  
~ It would have been naïve to expect that the reunions of the Noldor would be simple and joyful. The Elves _remembered,_ and there were some things which they had yet to to learn.

Fanari's father Penlod had not known whom was the tall warrior proclaimed as Maglor's son, and in the bustle of departing for Middle-earth, had not heard the mother's name mentioned. It did not concern him, since his loyalties had ever lain with Fingolfin's second son.  
Glorfindel had considered that the revelation was not his to reveal. Penlod had been a friend, but his wife Edlothiel had always been closer, accepting the forbidden relationship between he and Ecthelion. Penlod had ignored it, sometimes ostentatiously, but was careful to do all that was politically necessary to support his king's Lieutenants'.  
He was punctilious in his observance of the Laws of the Valar, which Ecthelion had said wryly, was the reason he had but one child. Edlothiel's greater warmth and acceptance had formed the mortar that shored up that friendship, and she had passed that characteristic to her daughter. When Penlod learned that Maglor had raped Fanari, Glorfindel knew he would be wholly and justifiably enraged, and in Imladris he had asked her if she wanted him to speak to her parents.  
“No,” she had replied. “I thank thee. But that is for me to do, when we reach Mithlond.”

The population of the Havens had once been much larger, and there were many villas and houses which could be used for this sudden influx. Elves who came there often lingered for many years before taking ship, and no house was left to fall into disrepair. Although Glorfindel had Fëanor had agreed that the Noldor would not tarry there long, there were supplies to gather, and the Elves were eager to breath the air and walk the earth of Ennorath once more. Thus the Lords and their households were lodged with all the comfort Círdan and his people could offer.

Fanari had made her way directly to the villa where the Lord of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow had made his temporary home, and the first sight of her parents caught at her throat. Her tears mingled with her mother's. Penlod did not cry, for he had ever been controlled, but his embrace was hard.

She had known it would be difficult, but when it came to it, and looking at their radiant faces, she wished for a cowardly instant that she had accepted Glorfindel's offer. To them, this story would be one of shame and grief, yet it had given her Tindómion. Her son was part of her life, the only good thing she had salvaged from the ruin of the Elder Days.

“Thou didst not wed, then?” Penlod asked, for this had always been the point of contention in their household. Fanari had never spoken of her youthful infatuation with Maglor, but she suspected her mother guessed that there was some-one whom had engaged her heart. She felt strangely like the defiant young maiden who had told her father she would never wed, as she said: “No, _adar._ ” Then, gripping her hands together, “But I have a son. Tindómion Maglorion.”

She thought all of them had stopped breathing. The walls of the chamber slid together, strained to listen. The blood burned high in her face and she knew she had come to her feet.

Her father gathered breath and shouted at her: “My daughter lay with a _kinslayer?_ Where?” he demanded. “ _When?_ ”

“Penlod!” Edlothiel warned, and he cried: “ _What?_ She would never marry. She swore she would not! And she gave herself to a Fëanorion?”

“Fëanor is our high king !” Fanari exclaimed. “Proclaimed so by Glorfindel. Thou surely knew that, father. One does not speak of one's king...”

“Turgon is my lord, as he ever was ! Hells, daughter, why thinks't thou we came? To be reunited with thee ! And now I find thou hast brought shame on my name. When,” he asked, his voice lowering to a threatening intensity, “did it happen?”

There was the sound of voices in the passage. Fanari recognized them both, and swung toward the door as it slammed open. Maglor and his son disengaged themselves from the fruitless attempts of the servants to prevent their entering. Perhaps Tindómion had seen her riding away, or Glorfindel may have guessed her father's reaction and told him.

Maglor was quite white, Tindómion wore brands of color along each cheekbone.

“I took her by force, Penlod !” Maglor spoke through his clenched teeth. “I _raped_ her ! She did _not_ **give** herself to me !”

Penlod jerked as if he had been struck across the face. Edlothiel stood pale and motionless.

“She would have died !” His voice thinned with disbelief.

“I wanted to bear his son !” Fanari's words wavered for a moment.

“Thou wouldst die of rape !” her father reiterated.

“I loved him.”

“A damned _kinslayer?_ Thou liest !” Penlod's hand would have caught Fanari, but Tindómion was faster, and his shoulder drove straight into his Penlod's chest, throwing him back. The Fëanorion gathered himself with the fluid skill of a warrior. Light flashed and flickered on the dagger as he drew it from it's sheath.

“ _Never_ touch my mother, or I will prove myself my father's son in deed as well as in blood !”

“Istelion.” Maglor's voice was like an iron bar. “No. It is his right to challenge me and meet me. For I have offended his daughter and his House.”

“And I have forgiven it,” Fanari said. “My son is _not an offense !_ ”

“The act of his begetting was,” Maglor said inflexibly.

“ _Adar,_ he is thy grandson,” Fanari cried.

Her mother had wrapped her arms about Penlod, more to restrain him than to comfort him. He ignored her, glaring at Tindómion, whose own eyes were silver arrow-bolts in a countenance which might have been the twin of Maglor's.

“No,” He refuted. “He is no kin of mine.”

Maglor's face shone with anger. “Then meet me, Penlod. Shame me before my sire and brothers! But shame not thy daughter. Or _my son !_ ”

Both knew it would be no duel to the death. There was no such thing within Noldorin society. Arguments were settled in other ways, but such fights had been known; the match ended when one or the other was disarmed, and usually the opponents would wrestle, not use weapon. There had been very strict laws enforced after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë.

“I do not recognize thee,” Penlod enunciated precisely. “I know thee not.” His eyes flicked past his daughter, “Nor this get of a red-handed Fëanorion. He has nothing of my blood in him. And I have no daughter !” He turned away, wrenching from his wife's hold, as if inviting Tindómion's knife in his unprotected back.

Fanari's fingers closed sharply on her son's wrist. Her eyes met her mothers. Silent understanding passed between them.

“Istelion, let us go.” She sounded calm, and Tindómion wondered, through the fire-red haze in his mind, what it was costing her in pride to do so.

“Willingly, mother.” With a flick, the dagger went back into it's housing.

Maglor said, as the horses were brought forward: “I never knew thine own family was like mine, Fanari.”

She made a sound between a sob and a choke, “He is shocked, angry...So wouldst thou be !”

Tindómion swung astride his horse, drew alongside her as they left the courtyard. “Thou shouldst not have gone alone !”

“My mother will see us – perhaps tomorrow.” He did not ask her how she knew. “My father was right in one thing – thou art a Fëanorion.”

He touched her arm and he and his father flanked her as she rode to the Last Cup. The hostelry was so called because many Elves took one final cup of wine there, drinking the dregs of memory, before departing Middle-earth. It was not an inn such as would be seen in the north, nor in Rohan or Gondor. It's design was tripartite and Noldorin, and beside one long, light common-room where visitors might meet and drink, there were rooms lined with books, bedchambers and a bathhouse. It was bustling. Melodic voices and strains of music came to Tindómion's ears as he snapped his fingers to a passing servant and asked for a quiet chamber for his mother. The man turned without a word and lead them up a flight of white stone steps, along a passage and opened the door to a room, saying, as he left, that he would bring wine and food.

“Istelion," his mother said. "I am well. Please go with thy father. Ask for my baggage to be brought here. This will suit me very well.”

“Not until...”

“I do not wish to cry before thee.” She put the back of her hand to her mouth. “I know my father. He needs time. But for the moment, I would rather be alone.”

His face was tender, troubled, the anger held back for her sake.  
“Thou art not alone. Hells, I of all people know the importance of ones blood, of _family !_ ”

“I have a mother,” she said. “I have friends. And I will not...” She gulped. “I watched thy living death after the Last Alliance. I will _not_ have any-one, even my own father, deem thee unworthy ! I love thee!”

He enfolded her in his arms, feeling her shudder against his chest for a moment, before drawing back. She was not weeping, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears.  
“Do not go back there.”

He sighed, smoothed back her hair. “Very well, mother. I will have thy things brought here. I will come later.”

She set her hands against his chest and gave him a little push, looking at Maglor, whose face held both sadness and smoldering temper.  
“Do not let him.” She added quickly, “And do not thou go either !”

“Do not make me swear, lady.” Her head shook. He bowed and took her hand. “My family would never shut thee out.”

She came close to looking both amused and pensive, as if he had offered her a hot coal to warm her hands. It was only after the door had closed behind them that she sank down on her knees and cried.

_Fanari?_ It was Glorfindel's voice, comforting and concerned.

_I am not ashamed, Glorfindel, I never will be. My father cannot make me feel that._

_There is no shame,_ he agreed, and she got up and paced the chamber, the flick of her bliaut declaring more anger than grief.

***

“Istelion?” Fingon came to Tindómion's side as he stepped from the ramp of the great ship. Lanterns were lit on the quayside and their light burned out the rich reds in the Fëanorion's hair, so that for a moment, his likeness to Maedhros was striking. The face he turned though, was Maglor's – and Fëanor's.  
“My lord?”

“We have had little time to speak, but call me Fin', nephew.”

“I thank thee.” The smile was warm, unexpectedly sweet. “Fin. Uncle. I am honored.”

Two Elves climbed the ramp silently, carrying a barrel of wine and Fingon said: “A good thought. Come and share a cup of wine with me?”

“I was just on my way to my mother. We will not need all our gear, I wanted to see some of it stowed.” Tindómion gestured up toward where the lights of the Last Cup shone. “She would be pleased to give thee wine. She has argued with her father.” He added, “And so have I.”

“I knew Penlod was here, my brother told me.” Fingon laid a hand on his arm. “Why hast thou argued?”

“It was about _my_ father. And of course, my begetting.” Tindómion told him as they walked, his outrage rising again, his booted feet beating out the pulse of it on the cobbles.

“Penlod is no coward,” Fingon observed, after listening without interruption. “I would guess he believed he would kill thy father – or try to – and refused the meeting. It is rare that a woman survives rape.”

“She was subjected to much talk. I hoped that would be over now.” They entered one of the hostelry's doors, hearing the drift of voices from the common room. “Was she indeed raped? What constituted rape? But there were witnesses whom people did not publicly dare to contradict.” He knocked on the closed chamber door and then entered.

A fire burned in the chamber, where Fanari sat, and braziers perfumed the air with the scent of pine cones. The aroma of mulled wine was warm and tempting. Fanari looked up and went down into a reverence.

“My lord.” She looked relieved. Tindómion knew that she had worried that, for all his assurance, he would go back to confront Penlod. “Gil-galad was just here.” Her son saw her exchange a look of secret humor with Fingon. He flushed.  
“I was at the quay.”

“How is it with thee?” Fingon asked Fanari softly, and she flashed a glance at her son and said, “It will be well, my lord. My mother will not disown me.”

“Fingon, please. Are we not kin through thy son?”

Fanari's smile was pale. “I thank Eru my son is owned by his father.” She poured the steaming wine into two goblets. “I will be in my bedchamber, there is still much to do.”

~~~

“I visited Vinyamar on her fiftieth begetting day,” Fingon said, when she had gone. He sat down and stretched out long legs. “She was charming. A message had come that Maedhros was traveling from Himring. We saw each other too little. My brother was journeying with Finrod, and Glorfindel and Ecthelion were there in his stead to greet me. They said nothing of Maedhros coming. Thy mother knew. A good ally to have. I would never have imagined Maglor could have done such a thing.” He put out a hand. “And yet I cannot be sorry thou wert born.”

“She taught me to love.” Tindómion's face was washed by pulses of firelight. “And I so longed to hate.”

“She might have hated thee after the manner of thine engendering, didst thou ever consider that?”

“Yes.” He took a drink of wine.

“I would that Gil had had such a mother.” It might have been the heat from the fire which burned the blood up in the Fëanorion's pale face, but Fingon did not think so. “There had to be one who loved him. I _had_ to send him away. I knew he would be lonely. He is my beloved son, I am glad there was one to fill his heart.”

Tindómion did not look away. His fingers were tight on the cup.

“I know politics,” Fingon continued. “And the irony of it would even amuse me were I not still so enraged at the Valar – rumors spread by Rosriel and her kind, which were indeed true. The Valar did condemn us.”

“I feared for him, for his position. And then after – when we learned such love did merit terrible punishment, I feared for his soul.”

“And rightly.” Fingon's eyes caught white sparks. “But he loved thee and thou him – it gave him something.”

“But not everything,” Tindómion said harshly. “Not enough! I never gave him enough !”

“Istelion, just take him to bed.”

The astonished laugh which followed was hard, painful. “Hells – I wish it were so simple.”

“Is it not? Thou doth both devour one another with thine eyes.”

“Then why does he not do take _me_ to _his_ bed?” Tindómion demanded.

“I told him to. He said _'Why should I have to?'_ ” Fingon tilted his head. “There is a great deal of pride, too much, many would say, in our Houses. Yet I know it is not simple. It is overwhelming at the least.” His face, so like Gil-galad's face, grew stern. “Stand his companion at least, whilst the two of thee become accustomed. The Noldor kings have never been despotic and no-one can curb whispers, we have both known that, and my son and thee have lived in a court where each action was watched and speculated upon. It would be naïve to think that this will not happen in our new home, whatever the laws. Will it disturb thee?”

“No, but it will anger me.” Tindómion came to his feet. “My Lord Fingon, it will give me great pleasure to _flaunt_ myself before those who would speak ill of us.”

“Yes – I can imagine, after so many years. And I admit, it will please me also, and my son – and drive him crazed with need, as I hope it will drive thee.” Fingon rose and cupped the fiery face with both hands. “Gil could never be bored with thee. Love the Fëanorions or hate them – one never feels indifference.”

***

If no-one could not feel indifference to the Fëanorions it was because none of them were indifferent. As Maglor walked back to the chambers which were adjacent to his son's, he was able to raise a wry inner smile at how he and Tindómion used one another as a shield. _He against Gil and I against my father._ Thinking of his father, he decided to say nothing to him of Penlod. Fëanor would learn soon enough.

As it was, he did not see him. It was Celegorm who knocked on the door and entered, then set his back against it.

Maglor had sometimes been called 'the peacemaker' for his attempts to soothe the arguments that inevitably flared within such a family. Those who love passionately can hate with equal fervor, and at times it appeared they did hate one another, but beneath the flaring disagreements and occasional physical outbursts ran the bond that connected them all. To see them all alive, after watching one after another die, could still close Maglor's throat with the heaviness of tears, yet the fact that they could still move him to anger was strangely comforting. He would have been sure he was still mad had any of them changed.

“What is it?” Celegorm moved from the door.

“Need it be anything?” Maglor parried.

“It need not be. But it is.” A smile crooked his brother's mouth. “There is anger in thy movements. Thou hast not changed.”

“It does not concern any-one but myself – yet.” It would, however. _“I do not recognize thee,”_ Penlod had said, blank and icy and abruptly Maglor stood up, his teeth clenching hard.

“Brother,” Celegorm said, persuasively. “Talk to me. Thou hast scarce spoken to any of us.”

Celegorm's eyes were the color and luster of black pearls; not black at all but that deep opalescent gray which seems polished by silk. His hair was so pale a gold it was almost white. The effect was beautiful, and he could be irresistibly charming when his haughty mouth smiled without cruelty. He rested beringed fingers on his brother's cheek, and in a memory-flash which caught Maglor by the heart, he saw Celegorm die in the wondrous, bloody halls of Menegroth. He turned his head, pressed a kiss on the cool palm.

“Dost thou regret?” he murmured.

The winging brows, startlingly dark in contrast to the fair hair, went up. “We did not fulfill our oath. Of course I regret that. I regret...many things.”

“The children, Celegorm,” Maglor snarled. “Dior's sons – Hells, they were so young!”

Careful blankness sheeted Celegorm's eyes. “Saewon told thee that I ordered their deaths, I have no doubt.”

“Yes, and Maedhros killed him, and had he not, I would !”

“I have spoken to our brother.” Celegorm moved away, picked up a hazelnut from a dish. “I told my people to wait for me.”

“To kill them thyself?”

The nutshell snapped. “Who knows now? Perhaps I might have taken them, raised them as my sons.”

The anger ran from Maglor like meltwater.

“Very eloquent she was. No blade ever cut so deep as her words, and they festered in me like a poison. She saw all that was in me. I had no sons...” He turned then, and Maglor opened his arms. He said, with difficulty: “We were all mad. Thou art my brother.”

“Ah, Macalaurë,” Celegorm whispered. “ _Were_ mad? And I might have slain them. I know not.”

“I know. And still thou art my brother.”

“And so tell me.”

“If I tell thee, thou wilt tell Curufin, and _he_ will tell father.”

Celegorm laughed softly. “When did we ever have to _tell_ our father anything?”

Maglor could not help the smile which tugged at his mouth. “Truly. It seems Penlod does not recognize me, or my son.”

“How devastating.” The words bit. “He does realize he will have to swear fealty when father formally takes the high kingship?”

“I challenged him, and he did not recognize me, or even his own daughter.”

“Penlod always did act as if there were a spear lodged up his rectum,” Celegorm said caustically. “One does not _refuse to recognize_ us. But thy son is ours. He does not need his mother's house.”

“I will see if Penlod does not recognize _me_.” Celegorm's eyes were hard and glittering.   
  
“No. This is for me to deal with.” Maglor drank, set down the goblet with a crack of metal on wood.   
  
“The Oath drove us all insane,” Celegorm murmured, suddenly gentle. “Why else would I have offered for that witch? But it is over, brother mine. Over.”   
  
“I wonder. Will it ever be over? Was it all fate? All of it?”   
  
“What if it was? We make our own fates, now.” His brother drew away with a flash of gem and swirl of hair. “And as for Fanari Penlodiel, she lived. She must _truly_ have wanted thee.”  
  
Maglor caught him by the shoulder and dragged him about.   
  
“It is what all are saying. And is there not an element of truth in it?” Celegorm gripped his taut wrist.   
  
“Nothing is that simple. I will not have her slighted because she survived my rape of her.”  
  
“I do not slight her. I state a fact. She did want to bear thy son. And thou art lucky with Tindómion. He _is_ irrefutably one of us.”   
  
“Yes, he is.” Maglor's threat became a caress. Their brows touched.   
  
Celegorm murmured, “I thought wedding Lúthien was a good idea at the time. Madness. But I would have gone with Finrod if...” He drew back, the more familiar arrogance slipping over his face. He turned to the door. “If...” With an insouciant shrug that was not as careless as it looked, he left the chamber. Maglor leaned against the tapestry-hung wall and, later, went to speak to Maedhros under the cinder-red winter sunset.

By the time Edlothiel came to see her daughter the next morning, the news of Penlod's wrath had spread beyond his inner circle and reached the ears of Borniven and Rosriel. Even while mother and daughter were sitting together and talking, a servant was being admitted to Penlod's presence.

***

_“Thou art sorry for the one act only.”_

_“Yes lord, and that I do regret.”_

There was a long time wherein Irmo searched the deeps of the man's soul. He saw the contrition in it, the shame of what he had brought to pass, and equally the denial that anything else merited punishment. Were there not others who lusted after their own kin, their own blood, yet who had been released from the Void? None now but Eru might judge the acts of the Firstborn.

“Thy name is cursed,” the Vala stated, not ungently.

“Then I am in company with Fëanor, am I not?”

That was inarguable.

The mariners who took him from Valinor did so at the request of Irmo. They did not speak to him, save to reply to a question, and he asked few. He felt their antipathy, saw their closed faces, but in his unaltered arrogance it touched him not at all. He knew where he was going. He knew exactly.

_The sunken lands,_ he thought.

After the Great Sea had gorged itself on Beleriand only the highest points of the land pricked above it's surface. Númenorean mariners and some far-voyaging Teleri vessels had seen those isles, remnants of a drowned world. Their names had long been lost save among the Elves, and even they did not land on these places, for they were almost as burial cairns to the dead.

And some were cairns indeed.

The mariners were skilled but the sea swirled here about rocky islets, frothing into riptides and whirlpools. It took some time before they hove to in calmer water and a boat was set down. The Master Mariner watched and turned to the stern-faced passenger.

“These waters are unknown to us.”

“What lies beneath is known to me,” the man replied, alighting easily to the boat, where two rowers waited.

The isle was higher than it had seemed from the ship, scoured by wind and water, barren save for the lichen that dappled the rocks. It rose steeply out of the foaming surf, and the man used hands and feet to pull himself up until he reached a ridge. Behind him, the oarsmen stood on the strip of beach, their voices soft against the endless murmur of the ocean.

From here, he could see the vast northern expanse of Belegaer, chill sapphire smeared by the spume of whitecaps, but he spared it only one glance. Below him the rock dropped for three ells or more into a wide depression. Against the grey rock was a startling swathe of gold. The man leaped down, stood beside the mound where flowers grew even at this latitude, even in winter. He had seen everything that had passed since his death. He knew what these blooms marked. Once, grieving hands had lifted stones and placed them over the burned and broken body of golden-haired warrior.

Below the restless waters lay the ruined towers of Gondolin.

A wave of energy and heat blasted over him and he whirled.

The figure was a raging gold against the blue pallor of the sky, the streaming hair flung like rays about his face. His eyes were lamps of white fire.

“Maeglin,” Glorfindel said. ~

~~~

 

 

This is part of a picture of celegorm by Tuuliky on Deviant Art. (Cropped due to original size) After seeing this I knew I had to write him blond. :)

 

 


	9. ~The Deepest Springs Of Blood And Love ~

 

  
~ A cold breeze dried the tears on Edlothiel's face. The quarrel of the gulls, the hiss and boom of the sea, seemed to calm her a little. Her face slowly smoothed of distress.

“I wish I could have been with thee.”

Fanari curved an arm about her mother's waist. “Ever after,” she murmured, “I imagined how the both of thee died...”

“No!” Edlothiel exclaimed “Do not! Ah, do not speak of this now!”

“Memory fetters those who bear the burden of living.” Fanari kissed her cheek. “Maglor would not have loved me, even had the oath not bound him. But I allowed myself to dream – and I wanted him to have something. If I had died I would also have killed my son. His son.”

“I want to know thy son and love him – but thy father...and it was rape Fanari. Thou may try to excuse Maglor, but...”

“I love Tindómion.” The interruption held an edge that Edlothiel did not recognize in her daughter. “If my father refuses to recognize him, so be it.”

“Perhaps when he has had time,” Edlothiel offered. “From what thou hast told me, I do not wonder at thy pride in him. Thou knowest how thy father feels about such loves...he and Fingon's son. Yet he would say naught, rather ignore it, as he ever did. It is not that, but who fathered him and _how_ that enrages him.”

“He was right in one thing,” Fanari said. “Tindómion _is_ Fëanorian. I raised him to be so.”

“It was more than love, was it not?” Edlothiel sounded quiet in the wake of the passionate declamation. “Thou hast foresight?”

“I know not. I saw Maglor alone, under a great shadow,” The words blended with the wrestle of the wind. “There had to be something in the world for him, of his own blood, even though he knew it not.”

At that moment, Tindómion came into the chamber, and stopped short as he saw Edlothiel. Inclining his head, with a bow, he said, “Excuse me, mother. Lady.”

“There is nothing to excuse.” Edlothiel came forward and her clear gaze swept him from bronze-crowned head to booted heels. She put out her hands and nodded.  
“Yes. He is indeed his father's son. But I hope, Tindómion, that thou wilt also be my grandson?”

His lean fingers closed about hers. Her face was his mother's. The same warmth, the same empathy.

“Grandam, I would be be pleased.”

~~~

“He does not wish father to know yet,” Celegorm said.

“Why not?” Curufin demanded sharply. “If there are those who will not swear fealty to our father let them remain here or depart back to Valinor!”

“On the other hand,” Celegorm continued thoughtfully, “Perhaps it will be more satisfying to have them in New Cuiviénen. I have heard enough of curses and hatred against our line.”  
  
The wind hustled him as he drew the horse to a halt, shredding his pale hair. To his left the heaving sea was mottled iron, to his right, green woods and meads swept to dark mountains. A good land for hunting, a fine place to live. But they could not remain here.

A peregrine wheeled high up, and Celegorm lifted his arm, imitating it's cry. It dipped, plummeted in a bolt of slate-blue and came to his hand, cruel claws gripping the doeskin of his gauntlet. It's eyes were wild, filled with the sky.

“So, what wilt thou do?” Curufin asked. “Take a wife?” 

“Please,” Celegorm cast up his eyes. “Can we just forget I thought of wedding that half-blood thief?” A flash of rage came and went across his face. _She and Beren, laughing, unconcerned..._ “There are one or two matters I would attend to.” He stroked the peregrine's head before he released it with a silent word.

“Yes?”

“I shall have to consult our new Vala.” With a gleam of white teeth Celegorm wheeled his horse and set it at a gallop back toward the white walls of Mithlond.

~~~

“I did not hear Eru speak and proclaim this _acceptable or natural!_ ” Rosriel leaned toward Penlod, whose expression was carefully blank. “Those of us who see it as wrong _must_ stand as one.”

“The One spoke to his new Vala,” Penlod said pedantically. “He does not speak to us. We have to accept that Glorfindel is our Vala. And why not?” he continued briskly. “He died and was reborn, and returned to Middle-earth to fight against Morgoth's legacy. No other has done so.”

“ _He_ would have such filth made law, because of his own nature!”

“The One would not choose an unworthy servant.”

“Unworthy?” Rosriel laughed. “The other is the son of Sauron is he not? Another of the same ilk ! The One may have reasons we know not.” Her expression made it plain that in this case she did not trust Eru's reasons. “But it is our duty to speak out against such practices which bear no fruit and bring disaster.”

“But only when we are in the new haven,” Borniven intervened. “Mad Fëanor would no doubt leave us here, and he has the support of Glorfindel, and others.”

“What art thou suggesting?” Penlod asked quietly.

“I have many followers,” Rosriel told him. “And I am Fingon's wife.”

He favored her with a curious stare. “Lady, has he spoken with thee?”

“I am his wife before Varda !”

_No, then,_ Penlod thought, unsurprised.

“Madam, I was – and still am – a friend to Glorfindel and Ecthelion who were lovers, and respect them entirely.” Reserve stiffened his voice. “I want Fëanor as a king as little as thou, but I will not be party to treason, and thou art coming very close.”

“Fanari's son, thy _grandson,_ got on her by another cursed Fëanorion, twisted Ereinion and she herself encouraged them !” Rosriel came to her feet, her skirts swirling as she turned. “There is a curse on those who practice such things ! My son died for his appetites. And Tindómion Maglorion _suffered !_ ” On the last word, she smiled. Penlod frowned and looked at Borniven who said, lightly, uncaring: “He grieved for his lover. He searched the shores of Lindon, wandered the cliffs and palace, as mad as his father. If such things is permitted in our new home it will fall, just as Gondolin did, just as the last high king fell – through moral rot.”

“Gondolin fell by a traitor's hand, and because we lay under the Doom, as Ulmo warned our king,” Penlod corrected. “We all know that now. I fought at Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad, lady, I saw Glorfindel and Ecthelion in battle. Nothing they did in their private lives affected their prowess as warriors.”

“So thou sayest,” Borniven sneered.

“So say those who saw them fight and die. And thou wert one of them, I understand?”

“Any warrior would have done the same,” Rosriel interrupted. “It is their duty! And still Glorfindel died, as did Ecthelion. Tuor – a Mortal, survived, for he was pure of heart. My own husband died at the hands of a Balrog, made weak by...”

“It is clear though hast never seen one or how they fight, lady.” Penlod's voice held a tinge of contempt. “They use their whips to render their opponent helpless, pinning their arms to their body, and that is quite apart from their dark fire,and their strength.” His head shook almost infinitesimally at Borniven. “I may not agree with those who love others of their own sex, but such private doings do not affect a warriors strength or courage.”

“Thou art either with us or against us in this.”

“Is that so? Tell me what are thy plans, then? Lady, I am sorry if this pains thee,” he was not, not truly. He thought of Edlothiel's sparkling generosity of spirit and body. Such was the contrast between that and Rosriel's cramped, pinched bitterness, that he felt himself roused to return to his wife and tumble her onto the bed. He had not had such thoughts for long years before his death. It was both disconcerting and thrilling. “But I have heard that there will be new laws. Neither Fëanor nor Fingolfin have been accompanied here by their wives. There is rumor that some marriages may be lawfully annulled.”

He had been close to Turgon, enough to read between his king's words and to guess at the relationship between Fingon and Maedhros. He did not have to guess now, he had been with Turgon when Fingon entered the chamber with the eldest of Fëanor's sons, seen their closeness. It had not been flaunted, but had been perfectly obvious to him and any-one with eyes to see.

“Whatever new laws the cursed one creates nothing can annul a marriage made in the name of Eru,” Borniven said, dismissive. “The consequences could finish Fëanor's rule before it begins. No decent person will permit holy vows to simply be put aside, and step back while their spouse takes another.”

Penlod might have agreed in principle, but Borniven spoke condescendingly, as if to some-one slow of understanding, and as to a collaborator. He resented it. Penlod had blooded his sword on the spawn of Morgoth hundreds of years before this pompous pup had been born into the shining peace of Gondolin.

“If Prince Fingon has not visited his wife, I think thou may have to accept the fact that...”

Rosriel said thickly: “We need a clean king, or we will fall just as we did before...It is my duty to wean my husband and son from their doom !”

“We do not speak of treason but the will of our people, Penlod," Borniven interpolated quickly. “Ereinion was almost forced to abdicate once. Had it not been for the Lady Galadriel he would have been forced to step down. The more support we have, the more likely it is that we will have the king we desire, one who will rule us wisely and well.”

“And whom would that be? Fingolfin ruled us well and with wisdom.”

“Perhaps.” Borniven thought he heard laughter, rich and mocking in his mind. “We will consider it in out new home.” Smiling urbanely he lead Penlod to the cabin door and up the steps.  
“Forgive my lady, she is deeply upset. And thy daughter always defended her cursed son and ignored her. Had Rosriel had a son she could be proud of, one who wed and turned from the unholy appetites of his father...” His shrug was delicate, eloquent. “I can wholly understand why thou wouldst disown a child who is proud to have born a son to a Fëanorion.”

Penlod's hand clamped down on the other's, where it rested too familiarly on his arm. “I do not believe I gave thee permission to speak of my daughter,” he said icily, and walked swiftly down the ramp onto the quay. He felt, as he never had when in the company of Ecthelion or Glorfindel, that he had been in the presence of something distasteful and wished to lose it in the warmth of Edlothiel's embrace.

“Lord Penlod?”

Brought out of his musings, he glanced around to see a man draw his horse alongside. His dark hair was bound in the distinctive triple-braids of all Elves born in the Elder Days, and he wore rich copper and black. Erestor did not favor his father, and it was a moment before Penlod recognized him, for he had been but a youth when Gondolin fell. He inclined his head, coolly.

“Yes, I am Erestor. And if, as I think, thou hast been speaking with Rosriel and Borniven, I beg thou wilt favor me with a little of thy time. There are certain things thou shouldst know. And from me, since I was once close to them, and they would have me be so again.”

“I will not listen to tale-bearing.” Penlod raised a hand and then asked, curious: “Once, but no longer?”

Erestor nodded briefly. “And it would be well for thee to hear my reasons.”

“Very well.” Penlod lead the way from the bustling harbor. It was likely his wife was gone from their lodging, and he knew where she would be. Perhaps it would be wise to hear what this son of Salgant had to say before he returned to her.

~~~

After the Solstice, harder weather had come down on a bitter wind from the north. When it blew itself out, iron cold clamped down. Fog froze upon shrub and dry weed-stem, and the sky sealed the land under a lid of low cloud.

Vanimórë had lit a fire. Few Men dwelt near, and only the desperate would be out in such bitter weather. A small stream, ice riming it's banks, murmured not far away, voice muted by the cold. They had had roasted a grouse, throwing the entrails for the night-roaming foxes, laved their hands and drank from the water, then settled before the comforting glow of the flames.

“Come.” Vanimórë sat against a hunched tree, and opened his arms. Elgalad, with the wondering, unbelieving smile which had lit his face ever since they had come to Bree, eased against Vanimórë's chest and was locked into the hard embrace. His lord's body, the cloak he drew about them both, smelled of sandalwood and other exotic scents which seemed to emanate from his flesh. It was one of the first things Elgalad remembered from his childhood, that and the utter safety in those strong arms holding him.

“We should have stayed in Bree for the winter. I daresay we could have earned our keep at the inn by hunting or scouting for wolfsheads. I am sorry I have nowhere to call a home for thee.”

Elgalad smiled. “I w-was thinking how much it reminded m-me of my youth, my lord.” He turned his head and rested his cheek against the tattooed muscle, warm despite the hoarfrost. “I saw th-thee, one day, catching a fish in a r-river. I did not know wh-what I felt save that I l-loved thee.”

“Thou wert born to love me, and knew it before I did. Without thee I am too likely to fall...without thy love for me and mine for thee, what am I but another Bauglir?”

“I do n-not believe thou couldst ever b-be him.” Elgalad stirred, his voice passionate. “From the b-beginning I only knew k-kindness from thee and when th-thou wert not...kind I know it w-was for a reason: To protect m-me.”  
He turned in Vanimórë's arms, and hot, honeyed tendrils spread through each vein. Excitement and yearning, and a spice of fear spilled from his soul into the very physical reality of his groin. He hesitated for a jolting heartbeat, still unused to being able to touch, to kiss, to knowing he was loved and desired. Everything in his spirit flowed out in a torrent.  
He was still startled at the softness of Vanimórë's lips. All the torment he had undergone had not marred the rich scroll of them, and they were soft as wild rose petals, parting, melting into his.

Elgalad broke into fragments, like scattering embers of fire. He pushed his hands into the heavy black hair, eased one leg over the slim hips, so that he was pressed against the hard stomach and chest, his kisses frenzied declarations of the emotion which felt as if it had been born with him. He felt Vanimórë's head tip back, tasted the warm skin of his throat, gasping wordlessly, seeking greater closeness, engorged to exquisite pain under his leggings. He could not feel the chill of their fog-bound world, he was burning, the seams of his being torn open to _feel._

Through the clarion call of his heart, the screaming demands of his body, he was aware of Vanimórë shifting, rising to his knees, drawing Elgalad with him. Deft fingers unloosed the ties of his breeches. Something which was half-groan, half-sob racked him as he felt the answering proof of hunger and rode against it, the friction urgent, agonizing. Hard, slender hands cupped his buttocks and held him through his unintelligible, gasping pleas until he spent with a violence that left him shaking. His head dropped onto the wide shoulder, and he felt the drum of Vanimórë's heart, heard the hitching breaths. After a moment, his chin was tilted up.

“ I could devour thee.” The long, possessive kiss flicked at his overwrought nerves like a lash and he shuddered.

“P-please.”

“Not yet, my dear – and not here.”

Elgalad closed his eyes and his head shook faintly in despair.

“Not because I do not want thee.” He was pulled to his feet, his legs still unsteady as a spring colt's under him. “I want thee too much.”

The stream was icy. Vanimórë cupped water in his hands and washed the spilled seed from their skin, then walked back to the fire with his arm about Elgalad's shoulders. His face, in the now dying glow of the fire was aloof, impenetrable, until he turned his head and his blazing smile outshone the sullen flames. He ran a hand slowly down Elgalad's hair.

“Do not look at me so.”

“I do not know how I look at thee, my lord.”

“Inviting me to ravish thee.”

“I know n-no other way to l-look at th-thee.” A blush returned to his face at the smoky smile in the violet eyes. “A-and that _is_ wh-what I want.”

“No-one ever looked at me thus,” Vanimórë mused, his fingers sliding about the white throat and closing gently. Elgalad was aware of the strength there that could crush his windpipe, but he was not afraid. His exhilaration was riding on eagles wings.

“Never l-looked at th-thee with with d-desire?” He could not believe that.

The smile deepened, turning up one corner of his mouth.  
“Not with love _and_ desire, Meluion.” He withdrew his hand, and crouched to throw a handful of gathered wood onto the fire, which caught, spat upwards hungrily as if attacking the cold. As he rose, his head suddenly snapped about and he cursed in a harsh, alien tongue.

“What is it?” Elgalad stepped to his side, casting a swift glance around. He could see nothing, and there was no sound but the crack and hiss of burning wood.

“Wait here.” There was a pause, and Vanimórë's eyes went blank. “There is no-one close by, and I will not be long. Glorfindel will kill him or worse – not that one could blame him, but he has too much power now to stain his hands with blood at the outset. Hells, I would as lief herd hornets as be in his boots!” He took Elgalads face in his hands. “My mind is linked to thine, always, but go nowhere. The land is quiet and I will know if aught is amiss.”

“Whom – whom w-would lord G-Glorfindel kill?” Elgalad asked in bewilderment.

“He who betrayed Gondolin to Morgoth.” To Elgalad it looked as if tendrils of the fire were fraying from Vanimórë's hair. He felt a kiss like the flames heat and then, in a whirl of ember and black which confused the eye and left the air ringing with aftershocks, he was gone.

_Do not worry. I am always with thee._

~~~

Glorfindel's rage was feral. He could kill this traitor with a word, with one assertion of his powers, yet he wanted to prolong the dying, and make Maeglin see each Gondolindrim who had died in the city's ruin, before he himself died again. Power gathered in him like a stoked furnace.

And a hand came down on his shoulder.

“Do not darken thy soul with this act,” Vanimórë said. “Love and balked need drove him to what he did. Twisted love, perhaps, but ask thyself what thou wouldst have done.”

Glorfindel felt his blood like naptha in his veins, and he hissed, “The Elves are not under thy jurisdiction, what does it matter to thee? Thou knowest how many deaths this one caused!”

“I know, yet this was to be a new life for all. And he who swore the oath lives and will be the high king.”

“Fëanor is supposed to live. It was shown to me!” Glorfindel retorted. “And this one...”

“Aredhel's son.”

Both pairs of eyes turned to look at Maeglin.

“My mother is in Ennorath. Wilt thou prevent me seeing her, she who died for me?”

Glorfindel saw Vanimórë's wry half-smile at the arrogance. He jumped down from the ridge, and Sarambar flicked from it's sheath. There was a hiss as Maeglin drew his own sword and the blades rang together.

“He died for his treachery,” Vanimórë's words were edged as his scimitars, cold steel slicing through the thunder of potential violence. “New Cuiviénen is for _all_ who wish to go there, is it not?”

“I ask thee this: Dost thou forgive thy father, Vanimórë?” At the silence which answered his question, Glorfindel nodded. “It is not so easy to forgive betrayal, is it? The new haven will be no peaceful Valmar, there are already factions, loyalties and old feuds which have never been put to rest. Fëanor's rule will be a hard one at best! And the Gondolindrim will not accept this traitor!” He said then, loosing his passion. “Gondolin was doomed from it's conception, as were all our realms, our lives. I know that now, but it was one of the line of Finwë, loved by the king, who betrayed us to Morgoth!” Yet he did not move, balanced on the very edge of dealing out death – and sullying his soul.

Maeglin opened his fingers with slow deliberation. His sword fell. The sea wind swirled his black hair like smoke.

“Then kill me,” he said, eyes unblinking. “Kill me, Glorfindel. Kill me, _cousin!_ ” ~

~~~


	10. ~ Heritage ~

_**Gondolin. First Age 465-466** _

~ He knew when it happened. He knew before Thorondor brought the tidings to the city. The death he felt had a darkness about it, a nameless power, sharp as a blade. His brother's soul struggled against it, blazed up like a white torch and an iron hand slapped across it, breaking it into gleaming shards.  
  
Days went by and Glorfindel scarcely saw those who tried to speak with him: Turgon, Ecthelion, the knights of his house. He tried to reach out through the inimical wall which separated himself and his brother, and was foiled by the will behind it.  
He was aware of being restrained as he rose to leave his home, leave Gondolin. His mind cried out to the Great Eagles, asking one to bear him hence. Two pairs of arms grappled with him and he thought more joined them. He fought single-mindedly to throw them off. Ecthelion cursed him, and Glorfindel felt him himself bound as a prisoner might be. He strained, sinews cording, and chains bit into his wrists and ankles.  
  
And then he broke as Finrod died, and he saw nothing, as if he were entombed in that black pit with his brother, blind and deaf and bound to his body. He could not breathe, could not think and the anguish gathered like a rolling storm-front somewhere in the deeps of his being. Like welling candlelight through a deep cellar, his brother's face formed out of the blackness, radiant and sorrowful and said his name. And he felt, or longed to, and imagined he did, the imprint of a kiss on his brow.  
  
 _Ai, Finrod! Oh, my brother._  
  
He said, to the silent room, his voice stark and strange to his ears: “Finrod is dead.” Then the grief tore through him in a scream of denial and Turgon, whom had been Finrod's dearest friend, echoed him. Their entwined cry rang out over the gardens to the paved white street beyond, where those passing were halted in their steps by the declamation of sorrow and death.  
  
They released Glorfindel and gave him wine, held him as he wept for the brother whom had never judged him, always loved him. They tried to comfort him and Glorfindel, seeing the devastation in Turgon's eyes which reflected his own, embraced him.  
  
After, they learned where of Finrod's death. Bound to his own oath to aid the House of Barahir, he had gone with Beren, beloved of Lúthien of Doriath and died in the dank dread of the once-beautiful tower on Tol Sirion. He had built that fortress, and it had been captured by the enemy and after ruled by one of Morgoth's most powerful servants. Its name became Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves, and it was a werewolf, a thing of twisted and malevolent sorcery, that Finrod had grappled with, barehanded, and in so doing he himself had died.  
  
Ecthelion stayed with him, knowing where this pain would lead, where it had taken Glorfindel before. Their coupling became a savage battle of blows, wrestling, bites, and when Glorfindel took his lover it was brutal and feral, as if he sought to hurt. Down in the hidden floor of his consciousness mind he knew that he would find greater healing if he were the one so used, but since Fëanor, he would let no-one master him. Ecthelion's pained gasps, and staccato whispered oaths washed over him like a balm, and the intensity of his release surmounted all sensation but ecstasy. The muscles in his arms and thighs trembled until he drew away and allowed himself to fall onto the floor, strewn with ripped garments, sheets, pillows. They had not lain like lovers in the green-gold of the bed, but warred with one another in the chamber until Glorfindel brought Ecthelion down by sheer force. He closed his eyes, hearing his lover's rough breathing, the chink of goblets, the pour of wine, and raised himself on one arm.  
  
Ecthelion looked wild and angry, dappled with bruises and the marks of teeth, and he held himself with the stiffness of one avoiding sudden movement. To spare him, Glorfindel rose and took the wine, swallowed it on one draught, his hand gliding over the impressions his fingertips had left when they dug into the narrow hips to hold his conquered lover. Yet Ecthelion had allowed this, surrendered at the end, judging it to a hairsbreadth, or the fight would have been harder, longer and far more dangerous.  
  
“Let me help thee, Glorfindel.” Under the pain, there was understanding, their long, intimate friendship – and pity.  
  
“Tomorrow – when thou hast rested.” It was an apology of sorts.  
  
“Not that.” Ecthelion thrust the now-gentle hand away. “I would give thee greater healing than this, or the flogging thou wilt have me administer.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“If thou doth think I cannot master thee, thou art wrong.” Ecthelion hurled the empty cup against the wall. “I can give thee what Fëanor did, and more peace than he ever did.”  
  
“I know, my friend.” The brief calm drained away, and the loss roared in like a wolf.  
 _Ah, Finrod, Finrod, should I have gone with thee to Nargothrond and stood by thee?_ “I...cannot.”  
  
Ecthelion swore and his arms came around Glorfindel, warm flesh and steel muscle.  
“What has happened to us?” he murmured into the tousled golden hair. “Hold on to me.”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The horse was young and skittish, playing coquettishly with the stallion. She squealed, tail held high, pranced on slender legs, and Isilmion reared, seizing the arch of her neck between great teeth, asserting his dominance. The sweet-faced filly had never mated, and Isilmion was gentler, more patient with her than those he had covered in other years, whilst making it plain he would overcome her reluctance. It was spring and breeding was part of the sunlight, the rain-showers, the bursting of blossom.  
  
“She trusts him.”  
  
Glorfindel had been aware of the man's approach, but did not turn until courtesy demanded it, raising his hand to his breast.  
“Her instincts are true. And Isilmion has experience with nervous fillies.”  
  
“There is a first time for all things, is there not?”  
In the pour of morning sun, Maeglin's eyes were the hematite gray of his mother's, but there was an uncanny similarity to Fingon and Fingolfin in the high, elegant bones of his face, and even more disturbingly, to Fëanor himself. There were times when it was so marked, in a turn of the head, a gesture, that Glorfindel was flung back in memory to Tirion. Even dead, Fëanor seemed to be ever before him. As if the memories were not enough.  
  
“How does Isilmion show a fearful filly that he wants her, but will do her no harm?”  
  
“Thou wilt never have Idril.” Glorfindel's voice was dangerous in it's flatness. “Neither would Turgon permit it, even if she favored thee.”  
  
“Ah, yes, the Laws of the Valar, which likewise forbid sexual union between two males.” Maeglin's lips formed a delectable moue of scorn. “Turgon does not forbid Ecthelion and thee thy relationship. And thou art not the only ones.”  
  
Glorfindel thought of Maedhros and Fingon, cousins and lovers. By the Laws they sinned doubly and his eyes widened as Maeglin said, as if reading his mind, “Or my uncle, Fingon, and Maedhros Fëanorion?”  
  
Aredhel must have told him, in dark Nan Elmoth. She had certainly been clever enough and close enough to her elder brother to read the signs.  
  
“There are those who break the laws, but not Idril,” Glorfindel replied, evenly. “She loves thee not.”  
  
Maeglin's white skin flushed. “Turgon needs a male heir.”  
  
“Why?” Glorfindel pounced on that. “Dost think he is like to die?”  
  
“We know Gondolin is safe, but in the world without there is war !” The words came hot and fast. “In his heart, Turgon regrets that he did not open the city's leaguer when Morgoth broke in fire from Angband!”  
  
“Many of us regret it,” Glorfindel responded sharply, because he wished he had pressed Turgon harder, convinced him to go to war, and he lived with that guilt. At times he would climb to Fingolfin's tomb and sit beside it, remembering his kindness after Fëanor's savage seduction. He thought of his brothers, Angrod, Aegnor, Finrod...His mind could not bar the images it produced.  
  
Maeglin glanced beyond him, watching the filly nicker and stamp.  
“And if there is another battle, will the king and his warriors be content to remain behind the Encircling Mountains? Why do we train an army ten thousand strong?”  
  
No, thought Glorfindel. Fingon was High King, and he and Turgon had lost their father to Morgoth. Turgon would not remain in Gondolin if war came again. And he himself could not.  
  
“Believe me or no, I love Turgon.” Maeglin reached out and gripped Glorfindel's arm. “But if he should die who will take the throne of Gondolin?”  
  
“Remove thy hand.”  
  
Maeglin's eyes were hot. "Had thy name not been struck from the records, had thy father not disowned thee as his second-born, wouldst not _thou_ have ruled a kingdom here? Whom else would Turgon choose as his heir? Or is the throne of Nargothrond thine? I have heard Finrod loved thee...”  
  
White rage flashed across Glorfindel's mind, his blow snapped Maeglin's head to the side and broke his grasp.  
“Thou hast not earned the right to speak of my brother!”  
  
Maeglin dashed blood from his cut lip and with a triumphant scream the stallion plunged deep into his mate, an image of power and wild beauty.  
“Is that why thou hast ever kept thy distance from me? Dost thou fear Turgon will make me his heir over thee?”  
  
“Thou speakest of matters beyond thee,” Glorfindel said like the flash of a burning sword. “Turgon would not send an heir into battle and I am a Lieutenant and Lord. But whatever comes to pass, he will not permit thee to wed his daughter. Thou wilt not become his heir through marriage.”  
  
Maeglin was wild and glittering now. His urbane control had deserted him, and he looked Finwean to the bone.  
“We could deal better than this, cousin. Am I a rival? Is this the reason for thy dislike of me?”  
  
Isilmion drove again and again into the filly, violent and unfettered. Glorfindel felt himself attuned to the stallion's lust, hard and eager under his breeches. Grief and anger always affected him thus, striking straight into his loins.  
  
“I will tell thee why I dislike thee, _cousin._ ” He took a step forward, breast to breast with the other. Maeglin did not move, though his chest heaved as he drew air into his lungs. “Why I... _mistrust_ thee. I know Turgon. I know his brother and I knew Fingolfin, whose cairn lies above our city. All of them loved their fathers'. Hells, whatever they say of Fëanor, his Oath was made in the madness of grief after Finwë's murder.” He pressed against Maeglin, feeling their shared arousal, saw the molten fire in the dark grey eyes, and his voice dropped.  
“Ecthelion and I cast Eöl from Caragdûr, and from that time until now thou hast not spoken his name or shown grief.”  
  
Their gazes held for a long moment like locked swords, then Glorfindel whirled with a sweep of gilt hair and walked away.  
  
“My father would have killed me. Why should I grieve for him?” The words followed him. “Eöl hated that I cleaved to my mother, just as Finarfin hated the fact that thine own proclivities ran against the Valars' laws. We are not unlike, thou and I.”  
  
Glorfindel did not look back. His stride lengthened in his anger.  
No one spoke of his parentage, at least not in his hearing, and only those close to him ever referred to it. It was no secret, but it was a grave, unprecedented thing. Finarfin had been angry and aggrieved when Glorfindel told him emphatically, passionately that he would not marry, that he desired Ecthelion and loved him.  
  
~~~  
  
 _“I want thee to vow to me thou wilt never act on these desires, it can lead thee only to sorrow, mayhap to punishment.”  
  
“I will swear no vow, **atar,** for I cannot.” Laurëfindë stared furiously at his father. Arafinwë's eyes were colder than Nolofinwë's or the unique and perilous diamond of Fëanaro's, and now his expression was chill, aloof.  
  
“Thou wilt shame me, then, bring me sorrow?”  
  
“Why wilt thou try to make me feel wrong in wanting one both noble and high-hearted?” A scalding rage pushed past the contractions of his throat. “I have been honest with thee.”  
  
“I should not have to make thee feel it is wrong, when the **Laws** proclaim it unholy.” Arafinwë's own anger blossomed at his son's rebellious response. “Thou canst not feel the same desire for a man as for a maiden. It is crooked.”  
  
“I assure thee, I can. And I think I am not the only one.”  
  
The slap across his face was not violent or cruel, but hard enough for him to bite his lip, to choke off his words and effectively quell his hurt.  
“Thine offense will exact a heavy price, from thee and he both, Laurëfindë.”  
  
Laurëfindë felt himself grow taller, stiffened by a spear of pride and resolve.  
“I would not bring dishonor upon thy name, and so I will leave thy house lest I bring shame upon it.” He bowed and turned away. The door of the room rushed shut behind him. _  
  
  
His siblings' love was unaltered, although their eyes and words to him held pain, but it was Turukáno whom had truly understood, Turukáno, whom Laurëfindë had come to know through Findaráto. Turukáno had known even as a youth that his elder brother had eyes and heart only for Maitimo Feanárion, and he would not condemn Findekáno. Thus it was that the second son of Arafinwë pledged his service to the second son of Nolofinwë. Laurëfindë might have joined Findaráto's household. His brother had asked him. He had refused.  
  
 _“I cannot. Our father has asked me to swear an oath that I will never act on my unholy desires. I cannot do it. Thus I am no longer of his house. I will not bring shame upon thee.”  
  
Findaráto held the braced shoulders. “Thou couldst never bring shame upon **me.** ” His hands slid up, cupping his brother's face, and then drew it forward to kiss his brow. “I love thee.”  
  
“And I thee.” They came together, embracing with all their strength. “But I cannot and will not act against my nature. I will not swear an oath that I will break. I will not marry a woman I cannot give my heart to, it would be dishonorable and unfair. I would be living a lie.”  
  
“I know. But remember I am here for thee,” Findaráto whispered, drawing back. “Always.”  
  
“I will remember.” A wind passed over them, it seemed to carry a hint of the sea, although they stood in a flower-starred garth, in Laurelin's light.  
“What of thy people who love thee and are loyal to thee?” Findaráto asked.  
  
Laurëfindë drew in a long breath, set his shoulders. “I will speak to them. If they still wish to follow me, I will care for them as their lord. I will take a new name, make my own House.”  
  
Findaráto's smile held unblemished affection. “They will follow thee.” He bent and plucked one of the small blooms which sprang from the greensward at their feet. It was bright yellow as fresh-minted gold, yet against the blowing glitter of Laurëfindë's hair its hue seemed flat and painted. “ **Los'lóriol.**** Valinor has no brighter golden flower than thee.”  
  
Laurëfindë took the flower, let it lay in his palm, and closed his fingers over it. “I will take that name from thee with pride, my brother.” He rested his brow against Findaráto's and murmured. “I thank thee.” _  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Glorfindel groaned as he strode on. Before him the towers of the city were slender jewels of silver-white, bells were ringing, the arch of the sky was like a note of music.  
  
He had believed so passionately in the rightness of his love for Ecthelion, yet for his father's sake, and for beloved Finrod's he had concealed it from all other eyes. All eyes but Fëanor's, who had read him like a scroll and blazed into his life and in some way marked him forever.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Perhaps it had to happen that evening. The afternoon had been given over to training with a group of his knights, and in the evening Glorfindel, attended a feast held by Idril. The ladies were wearing spring flowers in their hair which breathed forth a subtle perfume as they danced, but it was a male face that drew Glorfindel's eye. It was a face which whenever he beheld it, roused hot anger, relict of the day he had come upon Ecthelion possessing the younger man with the wild abandon of one driven beyond all restraint. So enthralled had he been with his conquest that he had not drawn away even at Glorfindel's entrance.  
  
He remembered the wide, shocked eyes, felt the tingle in his palm where he had struck the youth across the face. That had been ill-done, a reaction of blind outrage. Ever after, Amarthurin*, avoided him. He did not mingle with Glorfindel's friends, but Idril, it appeared, looked on him kindly, even though he was of Maeglin's house. Glorfindel had to wonder why, for her fear of Maeglin was well known to those close to her.  
  
Amarthurin stiffened as he approached, and bowed, looking as though he were preparing for a verbal – if not a physical – assault, but he tentatively relaxed as Glorfindel spoke courteously of the day, the feast and the doings of the city. Perhaps he should have offered this peace-gesture sooner, and knew he had been goaded into it by his encounter with Maeglin that morning. It was hardly laudable, but by the time the guests took their leave, Glorfindel could admit what Ecthelion had seen in this one besides his undeniable beauty. Here the wildfire of the Noldor and the wind-storm of the Grey Elves was blended, albeit cautiously shuttered as a lantern might be. Shuttered save for that one night...  
  
They did not hear the silent approach on the kerbed street, but the lamps caught the glint of gold and gem as Maeglin strode toward them and halted.  
  
“I trust the Lady Idril made thee welcome?” He nodded to both of them, a little bite in his words.  
  
“She is always gracious.” Amarthurin inclined his head politely. “Excuse me, my lords.”  
  
“I thank thee for thy company,” Glorfindel said distinctly. Amarthurin cast him a startled glance before walking swiftly on up the street, and Glorfindel turned in the other direction, cutting through a grove of old apple trees. A nightingale trilled close by, soft and plangent as an instrument.  
  
“Did I disturb something?” Maeglin asked behind him with honeyed challenge. “Perhaps thou wouldst try what thy lover found so delectable?”  
  
In one move, Glorfindel whirled, and slammed Maeglin up against the whorled bark of a tree.  
  
“What in the Hells dost thou want of me?” he snarled.  
  
“ _We are cousins !_ We could share so much !” Maeglin's fingers were spread tensely on the rough apple-wood.  
  
 _Remember me, Laurëfindë, remember what thou didst deny thyself..._  
  
The words scoured across his mind like levin. How could he forget, when Fëanor's face appeared long after his death, was stamped in others, bringing him back, the flame which had destroyed itself and left those he touched alone to carry the fire which had been before the sun and moon?  
  
Maeglin pressed back against his tumescence. “Show me,” he whispered. “Share with me.”  
  
“Thou art not as I.” Glorfindel could imagine all too easily, that this was Fëanor, his to use, to master. But no-one had ever mastered Fëanor.  
  
"Thou knowest nothing of me.”  
  
“Was this thy plan? If Idril proved inaccessible, to look elsewhere? No, I _do_ know thee, _cousin,_ thou art indeed no fool. Ambition rides thee hard does it not – thwarted lust and ambition.” He stepped back and turned, said over his shoulder, as he walked away: “Thou art royal and have thine own House. If thou doth need to relieve the ache in thy loins, look among them. More than a few will be willing, I do not doubt.”  
  
He did not hear Maeglin, but instinct brought him around as the other sprang at him, silent as a wolf, and as intent. They went down on the grass, where the trees had wept pink and white blossoms. Glorfindel heaved Maeglin aside and straddled him hard, thighs clamping each side of the narrow hips. They were both roused, and Glorfindel realized that it was not calculation after all. The years of fretting after Idril had eaten at Maeglin until he was on the verge of madness. No wonder she was afraid of him if she sensed this in him. Spatters of moonlight lit his face, showed it strained, hollowed under the high cheekbones. He was breathing in hitching gasps as he pushed up.  
  
“I only ride stallions,” Glorfindel said, cruel and deliberately so, for there was nothing of the gelding about Aredhel's son.  
  
Maeglin heaved himself up violently, his mouth colliding with Glorfindel's. He hissed: “Fëanor made thee his mare.”  
  
Glorfindel smashed him back down, his forearm across the pulsating throat. There was a boom and thunder as of surf in his head.  
  
“Thinkest thou Ecthelion has never whispered aught of this? Thine own uncle. And Idril looks at me with loathing because I am her cousin – and thou wouldst protect her? Hypocrite!”  
  
Glorfindel could not deny it. His anger threatened to erupt into violence; if he pushed down he could crush Maeglin's throat, end his life. Ecthelion...What had he murmured into the ears of a lover? Abruptly, with a growl in his throat, he raised himself, opening his breeches, the air feeling chill against his swollen heat.  
“Thou wouldst experience our shared heritage?” His hands pulled down the doeskin of Maeglin's own leggings, tossed aside the soft boots. His cousin did not hinder him, raising himself to give Glorfindel one battle-eager look before he fell back to the grass with a muted cry.  
  
He had prepared himself, as if he had known this would come to pass. The green scent of the unguent, used to cool bruises got in training allowed Glorfindel's fingers to slide into him. Yet no amount of oil or salve could prepare him for a possession driven by fury, and although Maeglin's thighs slid invitingly apart, he groaned and gasped as he was breached. His hands clamped on Glorfindel's back, his neck arched and every muscle locked, as if he held himself against the brutality of the invasion. Glorfindel knew how it would feel, unbearable, inescapable, something wonderfully, sinfully wrong.  
  
“This is the heritage of the House of Finwë, _cousin._ ”  
  
He shifted slightly, moved one of the long legs a little, and drove in, deep.  
  
“And our heritage exacts a price.”  
  
And a deep shuddering wave swept through Maeglin. Glorfindel felt his shock as pleasure burst through the pain. His legs lifted, and he clung, biting, fingers dragging and digging into Glorfindel's back as he was swept over the edge of the boiling waterfall, crashed into the white surf of release.  
  
“Is that what thou didst truly want?” Glorfindel withdrew from him, his own orgasm blooming in deep pulses through his nerves. “Is that _cousinly_ enough for thee? Go and bathe. The pain will ease after a time.”  
  
Maeglin rolled to his side and then his knees, hissing. His eyes seemed black, his disheveled hair streaks of darkness over flesh which gleamed with perspiration.  
  
“Why could it not be thou and I together as heirs to Turgon?” he asked through the last ragged breaths of astonishment. “Hast thou not claimed me?”  
  
“I did not claim thee,” Glorfindel rebuffed him. “I showed thee what the House of Finwë carry in their blood. Knowest not we are damned, we exiles, we lawbreakers, we kinslayers? So Námo himself pronounced.” He pushed back his hair, the white night blazed it to silver and added bitterly, thinking of Finrod, “Even those who did no wrong.”  
  
“Then I will be damned with thee. Idril rejects me, but thou...for thee I will turn from her.”  
  
“Do not even try and threaten me with that.” Glorfindel's voice fell dangerously. “I will not be thy substitute, nor will I ever be used.”  
  
“Thou wilt be neither.” Maeglin cursed as he rose to his feet, pain flickered over his face. “Thou, cousin, can give me all she cannot.”  
  
“Including the throne of Gondolin?” Glorfindel fastened his belt and turned away.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
 _“I will give thee both of them,” Morgoth's voice was a hammer of hot iron upon the anvil forged of his power, his hate. It was lava and burning oil and crushing weight, but it also promised something Maeglin had long desired. He looked up, his face bleached white by the incandescence of the Silmaril's upon the Vala's brow.  
  
“I will lead thine armies to Gondolin, lord.”  
  
“Yes,” Morgoth said. “I know.” _  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
 **Third Age.**  
  
  
  
“I would have died rather than submit to Morgoth or to thee. And so would Idril. We would not have lived.” Glorfindel flashed and Maeglin blazed back, fecklessly, “I was past caring.”  
  
Terrible and glorious as the sun, Glorfindel's eyes raged into blue-white light. “damn thee to the outermost...”  
  
“No.” Vanimórë rapped out. “The Void is not for the souls of Elves or Men. Do not do as the Valar did. _They had no conscience, thou dost._ ”  
Their eyes locked.  
  
“He did not _love,_ ” Glorfindel snarled. “Not in any way we understand it.”  
  
“No? We do understand it. To destroy and humble that which would not be ours willingly? Have we _not_ thought of it? How many times didst thou wish to humble Fëanor? How many times in thy _games_ hast thou taken control? Always.”  
  
The wind twisted Glorfindel's hair into molten spirals. He looked as if he might fray into golden fire.  
“Through his betrayal a city fell, and thousands died. An _Elf_ betrayed us. One of the house of Finwë. One of my blood.” One hand clenched over his heart. “Knowest thou how much I still _hate?_ and not for that act alone, not even for _him_ alone. I am not Eru, and I cannot forgive.”  
  
“I know it, my friend. This task will be hard for thee, and so...” Vanimórë stepped back and turned, drawing his swords from their housings in a twinned flicker of metal. “ _I_ will kill him for thee.”  
So casually he said it, that for a moment Glorfindel stared at him. Then his eyes narrowed.  
  
Maeglin found himself facing a snapping whirl of twin blades that toyed with his returning strokes. He had been a superb and courageous warrior, but Vanimórë had been made into a weapon thousands of years before and had never rested, never died. The two slender blades locked against the straight one and Maeglin stared into eyes the color of the spring violets that had once bloomed in the gardens of Gondolin. Vanimórë smiled, sensual and brilliant, and drove up with one knee. Maeglin's breath went out of him at the explosion of pain in his privates and he fell to his knees, still grasping his own sword with one hand. Two blades came to rest in a cross each side of his neck.  
  
“The kiss of death,” Vanimórë murmured.  
  
“ _No._ ” Glorfindel stepped across. “Damn the both of thee. What in the Hells brought thee here?” he demanded of Maeglin. “Aredhel should have met thee in Valinor and there thou shouldst have remained.” His fingers opened and closed on his sword hilt. His breathing was harsh.  
  
“I am cursed, cousin. Middle-earth is the only place for me. I was not permitted to see my mother before she left. Irmo held me as he said he had been commanded to, by Eru.” Maeglin came to his feet, with a dark look at the unperturbed Vanimórë, who smiled sidelong at Glorfindel as if he had wagered on his intercession. “There is something I must do. So Lord Irmo has revealed to me.”  
  
Glorfindel stared at him and then at Vanimórë, who shrugged.  
  
And Maeglin told them. ~

  
  
~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Amarthurin is an OC being written of by Amaranth. He appears in her one-shot The Elf in the Mirror although his life-story is not yet posted. She has kindly allowed me to mention him.
> 
> * Levin is an old word for lightning.
> 
> ** Los'lóriol, (emended from Los Glóriel ) was the name of Glorfindel's House in Valinor, in Book of Lost Tales II. Please note that Glorfindel's heritage is not canon. Gandalf said to Frodo in Fellowship of the Ring ( the book ) that ' He is an Elf-lord of a house of princes.' The most famous golden-haired princely house of the Noldor was that of Finarfin, third son of Finwë, Finrod and Galadriel, two of Finarfin's children, were likewise fair-haired. Glorfindel's lineage is of my own making within this AU only.


	11. ~ They Will Abide By My Laws ~

  
~The wind was turning, dying. Patches of milk-pale blue sky opened. Further north and east, the lands were gripped by icy fog, but it would not touch the Havens, not with the power that rested here.  
  
“Edlothiel would be pleased to see thy mother,” Penlod told Erestor as servants lead away their horses and they walked the Last Cup. He had not objected to coming to the busy inn for he believed his wife might had come here to see Fanari. It would not have occurred to him to try and prevent her, and his servants had told him where his daughter was lodging. Anyhow, after meeting with Rosriel and Borniven, he was inclined to view Fanari with more leniency. Those two had been too sure of themselves, thinking they knew him, could draw him into their plans. Looking aside he observed, “Thou art much more Cúraniel's son in thy face than Salgant's.”  
  
“So I have been told and I thank thee,” Erestor said a whit dryly, but with a smile. “Both Tindómion and myself have had to live with the weight of our father's misdeeds. I was an enemy both to him and to thy daughter, Lord Penlod.” he paused in the long passageway. “And for a long time.”  
There was a door at his back, and through it came the sound of animated voices. Penlod ignored them.  
“ Why?” he asked.  
  
“Thou shouldst understand the world we lived in,” Erestor murmured. “Before the War of Wrath, we Noldor knew the Laws of the Valar, yet some still ignored them or broke them with impunity, or so it seemed. When we came down Sirion and rested for a time in Nan Tathren, word was sent to Gil-galad. He came there to greet us and was proclaimed High King. His mother was with him. She was always with him then, as if she were his queen.” He felt the distaste in his mouth for his own part in those long years. “It was then I first heard the rumors that Fingon had died because he was doomed by his unnatural love for Maedhros. Rosriel began them, and those who supported her spread them. She ensured that her words reached everyone. I was young, without a mother or father or House, and I felt great guilt, for in Gondolin I had been dazzled by Glorfindel and Ecthelion, openly lovers and when looked upon Gil-galad, I felt the same attraction.” He read Penlod's grave countenance and went on. “Oh, I was too young, and anyhow, the high king did not seem to look on any man with desire. Not then. Rosriel took me into her court and fed me on her poisons until I believed all she said was true: that Glorfindel and Ecthelion had died because they were lovers, as had Fingon, and that there had been others, that all were damned and doomed to the Void.”  
  
“But that was true.” Penlod said somberly.  
  
“It was, but she did not know it, no-one did, save Glorfindel.”  
  
“Who was not cast into the Void,” Penlod mused, frowning a little as he considered this. “Why, I wonder?”  
  
“He was needed. If thou hadst seen him in battle, and later in the wars of Angmar...”  
  
“I _have_ seen him in battle.” But Penlod sounded amused rather than offended and Erestor smiled, inclining his head in acknowledgment.  
  
“Of course. Perhaps too, the Valar acted upon Eru's will and knew it not. Mayhap he was destined for what he is now before his birth.”  
  
“After what I have learned, nothing would seem impossible.”  
  
“If thou art thinking of Fanari, she lived quietly in after her son's birth under the protection of Círdan, but we all knew of her son, and of his begetting, although Rosriel – and others – swore that it could not have been rape.” Erestor watched the anger tighten Penlod's face. “She came to the palace and revealed Tindómion's parentage before Gil-galad and all the gathered court. And she asked that the king take Tindómion into his service, and Gil-galad said he would welcome him.”  
  
Penlod said something under his breath, a glint in his eye that might have been grudging admiration for Fanari's act. Erestor noted it and went on, “When Tindómion came before the king I saw it between them instantly: a meeting of souls, of desire. I hated thy grandson from that moment, although unless the world were changed I would never have revealed that I wanted Gil-galad, or any other man.” Erestor's mouth formed a smile of old rue. “It was a divided court, and moreso after Tindómion came. Rosriel began to see how little influence she truly had over her son. The atmosphere grew more poisonous. Rosriel saw what her son felt, she must have. We lived in a time where any-one who remained unwed was subject to her public speculation. I am sure many married without love simply to be free of the stigma of sin.”  
  
“I am surprised she did not eye thee askance,” Penlod remarked satirically.  
  
“I was above suspicion,” Erestor said grimly, although he felt himself flushing, recent memories burned into his very bones. “I was her closest supporter, with Borniven, and had we married our lives would not have revolved around her. She disliked women, Rosriel, men too, unless their views perfectly echoed hers. She loathed Fanari and Tindómion. He was too Fëanorian, and her hatred of them was like etching acid and freely poured out. Thy daughter she considered brazen. As for the Lady Galadriel Finarfiniel, whose supported Gil-galad when Rosriel called for him to abdicate...” With a shake of his head he turned to the door. “Thou hast seen how Rosriel is, and at the moment, Borniven must be advising her to hold her hand. Lindon was tainted by her and those who gathered about her – myself included.”  
  
“What changed thee?” Penlod forestalled him and Erestor said,  
“ When Gil-galad died, Tindómion came back to Lindon. He was mad with grief. I was ashamed I had not fought in the Last Alliance, anguished when I learned of the High King's death, and sickened by Rosriel's reaction to the news. I could not help but think of my mother, my last sight of her.” He had to pause to breathe, reassure himself that Cúraniel was here. “She would have wept for me, had I died. Many mothers wept for their sons and husbands that black year which men called a victory. Rosriel said Gil-galad had died because he was rotten with weakness as his father. She called Fanari to her, laughed at her and Tindómion's pain.”  
  
Penlod's lordly politesse deserted him and he growled, “She mocked my daughters grief? And her son's?”  
  
She had done more than that. Erestor had not been in the private chamber when Fanari arrived, but when he entered, Borniven and one of his servants had been holding her while Rosriel slapped her, the blows growing more wild as she spat venom into her face. Erestor had stopped it, saying that if Fanari told Glorfindel, Elrond or Círdan it would do their cause no good. And if she told her madenned son, only the Valar knew what he would do. Borniven had seen the sense in it and released his grip on Fanari, then devoted himself to calming Rosriel. Erestor had escorted Fanari back to Harlond. She had said nothing about it, ever.  
  
“I left Lindon then, and went to Imladris. I found that I could not hate Tindómion any longer, he had received a death wound, yet still lived. Who could have hated him?” But Rosriel and Borniven had, he thought, and reveled in his loss. Through the spur of disgust, he said, “Glorfindel trained me in the warrior arts and I was privileged to fight both beside he and thy grandson against Angmar, and in other skirmishes.”  
  
“What I have to wonder,” Penlod said quietly, “Is, notwithstanding Rosriel's...unpleasantness,” he chose the word tactfully, “Was she driven to this by Fingon loving Maedhros. It would be a hard thing for a woman to know her love was unrequited, and because her husband loved another man and that his cousin.”  
  
“She did not love him,” Erestor told him. “I was not there, but others were, warriors who died with Gil-galad and had lived in Hithlum under Fingon. She cursed Fingon's name and her son's, called down damnation upon them. But if thou wouldst know, ask Glorfindel, for he can read the heart and soul. Galadriel spoke to me of it once, and said that the mind of any Elf or Man can be twisted by hate until it turns them mad.”  
  
He pushed the door, and the voices within fell quiet. Penlod shot him look that might once have quelled him when he saw those seated there.  
  
The chamber was long and banked by glazed windows, letting in what light the winter day offered, but those within it filled the space and demanded more. Fëanor was seated in a high-backed chair, transformed into a throne by his glittering presence. His head had been turned toward Fingolfin and Fingon, Turgon at his brother's side and Gil-galad opposite. The slight smile lingered on the modeled lips as his flaming eyes fell on Penlod. He did not rise, but Fingolfin and his sons inclined their heads.  
  
“Sire.” Penlod's voice was stiff and Fëanor said, imitating his tone, “Penlod.”  
  
“We know what Rosriel and Borniven plan,” Erestor said, as he moved to pour wine.  
  
While Penlod would sooner die than betray a king anointed by the Valar, he felt as if Erestor had drawn him into a situation where he would be forced to defend himself or worse, swear loyalty to Fëanor.  
Who was looking at him as if he knew every thought that passed through his mind.  
  
Penlod hated him, he always had. He was arrogant as Morgoth, far too dangerous. And he sat now with insufferable assurance, as if he had never doomed himself, his sons and indeed all the Exiles.  
  
“I understand that thou hast met with Rosriel,” Fëanor said without further preamble. “And also that thou wilt no longer own the mother of my grandson, Istelion. In which case, I will take the lady into mine own household.”  
  
A burst of temper flooded Penlod's face with color and he found the answer strangled in his throat. Before he could form a reply Fëanor swept on, “It would seem a great shame that a lady who was indeed taken by force, should be cast from her father's house. _Nothing_ any of my sons did could turn my heart from them.” The last words were a whip of fire, as Fëanor came to his feet. Penlod, through speechless rage, saw Fingolfin's hand come down on his half-brother's shoulder and grip it. The lovely, fierce face turned a little toward him.  
  
“So it would seem, Sire,” Penlod managed, raw with outrage. “Eru forbid that _anything_ thee or any of thy sons did should ever be wrong ! No doubt thou hast not punished Maglor for his act !”  
  
A fury which far outweighed Penlod's own burst in a wave from Fëanor's soul. So intense was it, that it was almost visible in the room, a scintillation of the air about his body.  
  
“ _He has been punished._ He lost all he loved, he was tortured by Morgoth's cursed lackey. I asked thy daughter if she desired requital.” Penlod felt the infamous Fëanorion wrath like a physical blow in the stomach, and Fingolfin moved swiftly then, whirling to stand before his half-brother, one hand spread on his breast. It was like facing a lightning storm.  
  
 _Brother!_  
  
He braced his will against Fëanor's own, locking horns with the most perilous of all his kin, his seducer, his betrayer, faithless and and beloved.  
  
After a long, taut moment the danger passed. Fëanor's marvelous eyes drove into his mercilessly. His smile was very rich.  
  
 _Ah, I could take thee here and now, Nolofinwë ._  
  
Those words reached within Fingolfin and hardened him instantly. He could not control the hectic flush which mounted his cheeks. His fingertips tingled and he knew if he moved them down he would feel his half-brother as swollen, as urgent as he.  
More mildly, Fëanor said to Penlod: “What My son did was wrong. None dispute it. It was an act born of madness and anguish. Yet thy daughter lived, another may not have. Tindómion is part of the pattern.” He glanced back at Fingolfin, challenging, taunting, the last words almost a purr. “Now, tell me of my nephew's wife.”  
  
“I am no tale-bearer.” Penlod strove to regain his equilibrium.  
  
“There is no need.” Gil-galad spoke as if cleaving a way through the heavy atmosphere. “I know well enough what she will have said – her aim is to cleanse our people of the iniquity of loving another of the same sex, yes? I lived with that for a long time Penlod, Erestor would know.”  
  
Erestor colored and Fëanor said with malicious enjoyment, “I believe my new councilor has since revised his views on such matters.”  
  
“So perhaps it is true what she says, that thou wouldst make it law for us all to be lovers of other men?” Penlod snapped.  
  
“And women lovers of other women, perhaps!” The words came from between white teeth and Fëanor flung them at Penlod like shards of hot steel. “It is no longer against the Laws and never was! My people may love whom they choose!”  
  
“Then perhaps it would behoove Prince Fingon to tell his wife that, because she means to draw supporters to her as she apparently did in Lindon.”  
  
“I should speak to her,” Fingon agreed. “And I would, but our High King has commanded me not to do so. Not yet.”  
  
“We have discussed this.” Fëanor nodded toward his nephew. “I want her to believe exactly what she does. I _want_ her in New Cuiviénen, not sailing back in dudgeon to Aman.”  
  
“In Eru's name, _why?_ ” Penlod demanded. “I do not know all the facts save for what Lord Erestor has revealed to me, but that one and her sleek flunky will only cause strife.”  
  
“We are used to strife, are we not?” Fëanor lifted a brow and laughed. “It does not concern me that people disapprove of such love as is between my eldest son and Fingon, but it will never be treated as an offense, and I would have those who dwell under my rule _know it._ They wish to come to New Cuiviénen, so they will abide by my laws or depart.” His voice rang like a herald's. “Thou hast heard but a kernel of the malice Rosriel sewed from the time she was wed to my nephew. I have heard _all_ that pertains to me and mine. She lit the fire, and she will find, she, that toady of hers, and any whom abet her, that she reaps a harvest of flame.”  
  
 _Me and mine?_ Fingon, Gil-galad, Tindómion? The possessiveness was unequivocal and, to Penlod, unforeseen. He saw how Fingolfin's hand still rested on Fëanor's breast. It was very clear to him at that moment that whatever lay in the past: betrayal, abandonment, Fingolfin would not agree with any plan to oust his half-brother from the high kingship.  
  
“Is that not cruel?” he objected, but with little force.  
  
“Cruel?” Erestor repeated flatly. “Her own cruelty touched many lives and those who felt it forbore to serve her with the same dish, for they preserved their _honor._ I too was cruel and went my length and beyond it. Let me tell thee something about living with festering hate, Lord Penlod. The only pleasure in one's life is to cause others pain. It took me longer for me to forgive myself than it did others to forgive me. Sire,” He looked to Fëanor. “If thou wouldst take advice from me, I also would say forbid them New Cuiviénen.”  
  
“And so they are acquitted?” A darker flash lit the unearthly eyes. “I think not. Those who accept the new laws will be free to live as they wish. None will be hounded. But those who foment rumor and attempt rebellion and spread poison and lies will be dealt with fully – and finally.”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Penlod left the chamber with Turgon, who halted with him at the foot of a wide flight of stairs.  
  
“Thou wilt never see thy daughter under Fëanor's protection, I know it,” Turgon said. “Come, she was a friend to Idril, and I am fond of her and admire her courage.” He laid a hand on his friend's back. “And Fëanor is our king, whatever may come of it.”  
  
“ _Thou_ art my king, my lord,” Penlod hissed. “And that one has not changed! It is madness!”  
  
With a smile which looked into the past, Turgon said, sardonically, “All of us have done things we regret, myself included. I trusted where I should not have, I became too proud of Gondolin and chose to ignore the words and warnings of Ulmo. I laid down my sword and died in my jeweled city...” Penlod murmured a protest and Turgon's smile went aslant. “This time, perhaps we will not make such errors. Or, perhaps we will. But there is no Oath now, no doom on us. And as thy lord, I ask thee to look kindly on thy daughter and her son.”  
  
Fingon and Gil-galad had stopped at the doorway, talking to one another in low tones. Fingon saw his brother and flashed a quick smile but Gil-galad looked the wide stairs and his face shone like a jewel, hard and beautiful. Penlod saw his grandson step down onto the hallway, the flaunting bronze of his hair unmistakable. He did not touch Gil-galad, and Penlod guessed that this discretion sprang from a long habit of dissimulation. But as they walked out with Fingon, their hips touched, and their faces turned toward one another as if they would have kissed.  
  
Penlod glanced up the stairs and nodded. “Yes, my lord, of course.”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Thou knowest what must be done.”  
  
“Yes, and I like it not at all, sire,” Erestor admitted, and Fingolfin said, “It is not the way we deal with such things.”  
  
Fëanor slammed the palm of his hand against the wall and whirled on his brother. “No, it is _not_ the way I do such things ! I would send them back to Aman flogged and naked, but what will they get there but sympathy from those who agree with them? In this instance I will withhold, as I have been advised.”  
  
“Advised...!” Fingolfin looked at Erestor, who shook his head. “Who advised thee? I _thought_ this was not thine own notion. Glorfindel?”  
  
“Our Golden One is... _probably_ not that pitiless, brother. No, it came from the other, the son of Gorthaur.” Fëanor lifted a winecup to his lips and drank.  
  
“The one called Vanimórë? Thou hast seen him?”  
  
Fëanor shook his head, gazing into the wine as if it were one of his Palantiri. “As I learned what had been done, I desired to mete out punishment to those who had _dared_ to traduce my eldest son and thine and his son, my grandson, Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and others...and he spoke to me, mind to mind.”  
  
“And thou didst listen?” The disbelief was so clear in Fingolfin's voice that Fëanor looked up with a hot, brilliant smile.  
  
“I saw the merit in his suggestion. There should be nowhere in any Elven realm, our new Cuiviénen, Valinor, Imladris or _anywhere_ in Arda where any feel that the love of ones own sex is a crime.” He tossed back the last of the wine. “I trust I will be able to hold my hand until then. Gorthaurion's patience has been tempered over the Ages, or he has learned something about cruelty from his sire.”  
  
“Thou art many things but never deliberately cruel.” Fingolfin folded his arms. “However, I too have heard enough to wish to see cruelty repaid with it's own coinage. What that woman tried to do to Gil-galad as a child is unforgivable – and to say my son died because he deserved it, because he was weak...!” His teeth set. He closed his eyes. Naked and defiant before the Power who stalked the Void his soul has wept at Fingon's death. At every death he was forced to see.  
  
“One wonders what excuse she found for thine own death,” A long look passed between them. “Rumors, slander, whispers in corners,” Fëanor continued, “We know their effects well.”  
Of course they knew. They had fostered some of the rumors of their mutual antipathy in Tirion, an effective screen for their forbidden relationship. “And I will pay them in the coin they deserve of me, but even were the One Himself to change Rosriel's heart, she was never married to Fingon and his soul belongs to one alone.”  
  
“It has ever belonged only to one,” Fingolfin agreed. And then he burned, knowing how Fëanor would construe his words.  
  
“Erestor.” His brother's eyes were filled with complexities. “Thou wilt know whom I should forgive, and who will turn from Rosriel and Borniven. I will ensure thou art well recompensed for a shabby duty.”  
  
Fingolfin walked to the windows. He did not move even when the door closed, feeling Fëanor behind him as one feels a fire on ones back.  
  
“I will give Erestor a public reason to fly back to Rosriel's camp, outraged and penitent, and sickened by me.” Slender fingers rested on his hips. Fingolfin's breath caught and his teeth locked. He pulled away, saying, harshly, “Thou wilt give _many_ people a public reason to be outraged and to fly to her camp if any-one chanced to look up at these windows!”  
  
“Ah, yes.” Fëanor's voice held a smile. “We had to be circumspect in Tirion. But I have _hungered_ for thee.”  
  
“There are others to assuage thy hungers, thy new councilor and spy one of them! He is not happy with that situation and it is unfair on him! The compensation will have to be great indeed!”  
  
Fëanor laughed outright. “It will be _more_ than adequate. Thou knowest it.”  
  
Resentment flung Fingolfin toward the door. He paused and said over his shoulder, “Try not to make him fall in love with thee! Unless thou wouldst wed him!”  
  
He found himself trapped – or had he purposefully delayed and waited to be trapped? – by his brother's hands slamming down each side of his shoulders.  
  
“I relish thy jealousy,” Fëanor whispered, sultry as the air before a summer storm. “Save for my sons, no-one ever loved me as thou didst, my Nolofinwë. Not even our father.”  
  
“I love thee, though the One knows why! But I will _not be thy lover!_ ” Their lips moved closer, bodies rigid before the clash which brought both together. Their mouths savaged, plundered and demanded, and when Fëanor drew back their lips flushed slowly into ripe rose.  
  
“No!” Fingolfin was fierce,breathless, one hand tangling into the mane of hair, rejoining the kiss in something which went deeper than hunger, as if they both drank from wells that had been dry for too long. He lifted one leg and curled it about Fëanor's hip. Who breathed, “Tell me again. The manner of thy rejection is so unique!” And then stole both their breaths as he moved rhythmically, violently, and the fire cascading through Fingolfin's veins almost veiled the shout in the outer hallway.  
  
“Father !”  
  
“I know why my grandson plays this game with thine.” Fëanor nipped his way delicately down the exposed white throat. “It is so damnably intoxicating! Such a challenge!”  
  
“Father !”  
  
“I am no challenge!” Fingolfin thrust himself away, his back hitting the door, eyes wild. “Thou hast had me. And that, the time, the place, everything was planned by thee was it not? I was called in like a falcon to the lure.”  
  
“An eagle,” his brother corrected. “Of course, it was always there, deep as our blood, as it is between our sons and theirs. As it was, so shall it be.”  
  
“The memory of our sin must suffice thee!”  
  
“Thou knowest me too well to believe memories would ever _suffice!_ ” Holding his brother's roused gaze, Fëanor murmured, “It is Celegorm.”  
  
“Treating the inn as if it were his own palace,” Fingolfin remarked.  
  
“Yes, my dear sons, I have missed them.” And although there was amusement in the words, there was also truth and love. “Here,” he called out, and swooped forward to brand another kiss on his brother's blood-bruised mouth.  
  
“I so enjoy marking thee as mine,” he said with deep, almost tender satisfaction.  
  
When Celegorm pushed the door inward, Fingolfin brushed past him with a distant, formal greeting, but the Fëanorion was too intent upon his own thoughts to notice. He walked into his father's embrace and said, “I thought Glorfindel might be here. I need – I require him, or rather what he is now.”  
  
“I never knew the two of thee were so close.” Fëanor watched the lustrous eyes flash.  
  
“This is serious, _adar!_ ”  
  
“If he is not occupied with our forthcoming voyage, then I imagine he is occupied with his lovely prince.”  
  
Celegorm shook his head. “I went to his lodgings, he is not there.”  
  
“Is this something only he would know as a Vala?” Fëanor watched his son closely, reading his emotions as he had always been able to do.  
  
“Yes. If I could discover it any other way I would not ask him.” Celegorm walked to the wine table, poured two goblets and proferred one. His long fingers, flashing with gold and pearl and fire-opal, were bloodless on the metal.  
  
“Very well.” Fëanor put an arm about the tense shoulders and kissed him. “What is it?”  
  
Celegorm drew in a breath. “Thou knowest what happened in Doriath?”  
  
“I saw _all_ of my sons die, save one.” The fury and pain burned up like a fire set in dry timber.  
  
“I mean the children...Dior's young twin sons.”  
  
“What of them?” There was neither censure nor sympathy in the question.  
  
Celegorm put down the winecup without drinking and looked up.  
“I know not whether I would have killed them in truth, although that is what all believe. In the event, I met my own death there.” His father was frowning, but not at him.  
  
“I should never have died and left thee to bear the weight of my Oath.”  
  
“ _Adar!_ ” Bowing his head, Celegorm caught the rich-toned scent of rose-wood and cedar that perfumed the black hair, the white flesh, felt the powerful pulse of life under his brow. “My servants rode with them far into the forest and left them to die in the winter.” He breathed deeply, resting against the strength which Fëanor had bequeathed to all his sons. “I want to know if they did indeed die,” he said. ~  
  
  
  
~~~ 


	12. ~ Ancient Patterns ~

Lórien, now lord of the Timeless Halls, was not yet accustomed to the mind-tones of the two who had been made Valar in Fos Almir. They were utterly unlike those he had known since before the making of Arda, carrying all the nuances of passion and pain, love, hate and grief.  
  
 _It is true,_ he affirmed from the gentle gardens where the Fumellar brought healing sleep. As he spoke he looked at one woman resting upon the grass. She did not speak, but when she woke, would take wine and food from the man who sat beside her, the husband who would not leave her. Hendunár hoped that with Gorthaur destroyed, she would look at him and truly see him, open her lips and her arms. Moriel, she was called, of the people of Finrod. Like Finrod, she had died in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, her last breaths blanketed by the cries of two newborn children.  
Sauron's children.  
  
 _There is a pattern here. And in all things._  
  
“It seems we do not know everything,” Vanimórë remarked. “I am rather relieved. It would be so dull.”  
  
Glorfindel regarded Maeglin with light-flaming eyes. “ I think I should have known of _this !_ ”  
  
 _An ancient curse must be broken and buried for once and all, the torn tapestry re-woven._  
  
“And I would ask why him, but I know the answer.” Glorfindel sounded disgusted and Vanimórë asked a silent question of Lórien and bent his head, considering.  
“No-one in Imladris knows him, do they?” he asked.  
  
“They know _of_ him,” Glorfindel paused. “Not his face no. Erestor would, but he is in Mithlond.”  
  
Both of them looked at Maeglin, who said through his teeth, “I will not hide who I am !”  
  
“I have always hidden whom _I_ am.” Vanimórë smiled like the high, cold sky. “And for a time, I cannot see any other way. Thou hast been a warrior of renown, I can see that, but to defend thyself from what thou wilt face among the Noldor would be impossible.”  
  
“Thou wilt go where no-one knows thee, under another name to do what thou must,” Glorfindel said. “Or I will send thee back to Valinor now, and until the End, destiny or no.”  
  
“Dûrion,*” Vanimórë suggested. “It suits thee.” He sheathed his swords and reached out, taking Maeglin's chin in his hand. He jerked away.  
  
“I know whom thou art,” he said, contemptuously. “Do not touch me !”  
  
The vivid purple eyes glinted with amusement, then flicked to Glorfindel. “He still wants thee.”  
  
“That is a pity.” Glorfindel's voice was still honed of rage. “I can arrange for Aredhel to see thee. I can place thee in Imladris, where thou wilt fulfill thine own part in this destiny. As for our new Cuiviénen, I will not rule the Elves there. If thou wouldst come there, the matter must be put before Fëanor.”  
  
“Ah, yes, Fëanor,” Maeglin snarled. “He who swore the Oath which doomed all the Noldor will be their High King, whilst I must beg to be accepted?”  
  
“Life is unfair, no?” Vanimórë said, dulcet-toned, and Maeglin hissed to Glorfindel, “Why does the Vala of the Elves have ado with the spawn of Morgoth's chief _servant?_ ”  
  
“This would be the same Morgoth whom thou didst make a bargain with?”  
  
Maeglin sprang at Vanimórë, sword slicing down in a brutal overhand sweep which was blocked so swiftly his arm stung with the force. Sarambar spat out white fire. Vanimórë was smiling. He had not even flinched.  
  
“Yes, Maeglin, thou art correct.” Glorfindel's free hand twisted Maeglin's wrist until he cursed and dropped the weapon. “Fëanor swore an Oath out of grief and fury. His father was slain and Morgoth had stolen the Silmarils, which were a part of him. He did not deliberately betray his people for his own gain and life. Which bargain Morgoth would have reneged on – and thou knowest that.”  
  
 _His soul shows regret for that act._ Lórien reminded them temperately.  
  
“Nevertheless.” Glorfindel was bitter and there was no remedy. “But thou wilt be unknown to all in Imladris, save Elrond and his sons, they do deserve to know, the son and grandsons of Eärendil, whom thou wouldst have slain as a child.” The expression on Maeglin's face was some recompense for the unpalatable knowledge that his cousin could not be slain.  
  
“I will be there with thee,” Vanimórë said. He looked north as if watching something far away. “When I was taken to see Húrin, it set within me a determination not to to break, whatsoever might come. I knew nothing then.” The glittering smile mocked his own youthful naivety, but Glorfindel turned to him and raised a hand, cupping one molded cheek.  
  
“Eru set an indomitable spirit in thee,” he murmured.  
  
“Hardly an uncommon trait, Golden One, thou art the Vala of an indomitable kindred, Eru help thee!” Vanimórë laughed, leaned toward him, kissing him long and hard. “Go and relieve thy tension.”  
  
A look of warm, wicked anticipation burned hot in Glorfindel's eyes. “And what of thee?”  
  
“I will just have to...imagine.” Vanimórë glanced at Maeglin. “Unless perhaps...?” He laughed at the complex abhorrence in the other's face and said, all venomous silk: “Knowest thou how very lucky thou wert that Morgoth did not have thee? He was consumed with Gondolin and had he used thee, broken thee, no other could have lead him there. Thy death at Tuor's hands was swift at least. Fortunately for thee.”  
  
Maeglin swung around and climbed the rough rock-face like a cat, vanishing over the edge and Vanimórë said, quite gently: “I could not let thee kill and damn him.”  
  
“Do not think that only _thy_ soul is capable of bearing deaths, Vanimórë! Do not see me as some stainless Vala!”  
  
“They are not stainless, they have the torment of souls like unfading blood on their hands. I know thee – and I have...experienced thee. Eru chose thee for this.”   
Vanimórë bent and picked one of the celandine's that covered the ancient grave. “Because thou hast known _all_ a well-lived life can offer, and that it is never as simple as Dark and Light.”  
  
“This elevation is no sinecure,” Glorfindel said, and his opposite, his equal, smiled with appreciation.  
“Indeed. I could almost pity thee.”  
  
“I know not how to stop them killing him, if they find out. I am not supposed to impose my will on the Noldor as the Aratar did, but to look to their interests and mediate.”

“Well, if one of them kills him it will not be on thy conscience, Golden One.” Vanimórë turned the delicate flower-stalk in his fingers. “Why did _he_ not return?”

“Dost thou not know?” Glorfindel asked fiercely. “The only reason that the Noldor's return _may_ succeed lies in the fact that Fingolfin loves his half-brother and _his_ sons love their father. But I would not have Finrod in the same realm as Celegorm and Curufin after Nargothrond. New Cuiviénen is large enough and to spare for our population to live in their own Houses and kinships, but space has nothing to do with it.”

“I do not envy thee thy duties.” Vanimórë reflexively adjusted his harness. “I will join thee and Maeglin soon. Give my regards to Legolas, and from Elgalad also.”

“Do not starve him.” Glorfindel's words halted him as he walked to the foot of the rocks. “It is possible to love him without devouring him.”

“Is it really? What of thee? Dost thou not devour thy prince, time after time, and leave him, and thyself yearning for more?”

“I can also _give,_ and so canst thou. Elgalad would do anything for thee. And he longs to.”

“Yes he would do anything,” Vanimórë agreed. “But he would not understand the games thee and I play. And I could not give him pain. He only wants love. He would not know why I needed him to submit to me, to cause him pain, then take that away with pleasure.”

“He would understand, do not underestimate the wisdom of purity, my friend.” Glorfindel stepped across to him and gripped one of the hard forearms. “I know what it is to need healing. Elgalad needs thee, yes, but far more dost thou need him.”

“And that is what concerns me.” Vanimórë returned the warrior clasp. “Thou knowest I cannot unleash what I need on him. But I know one who craves for it, and hates me for it.”

“Thou hast spoken to him.”

“Thou wouldst use thy powers to listen to other's private conversations?” The purple eyes went wide, simulating shock.

“That is not something I intend to do unless it becomes necessary,” Glorfindel responded with something of a snap. “It is a breach of privacy which I find abhorrent. I need not use any power to read Maglor's face. He is still deeply tormented.”

“So many are, and Maglor's torment does not proceed from me alone, does it?” Vanimórë raised his sleek brows interrogatively. “Now, his father...he would feel no guilt, no heart-rendings.”

“We are not all as Fëanor. And he does feel anguish for others pain.”

“I saw glimpses of him through Maglor. And thee. And I have touched his mind. I know. And yet, to have him...No wonder Morgoth lusted after him. No wonder.”

Glorfindel smiled grimly. “He has never let any master him. Not even Morgoth.”

“And Morgoth hated that. I never knew. He never truly saw me, I think. Just some-one who hated him, who would not die... and every time he took me it was truly Fëanor he raped...And he sent Balrogs to slay the one he knew he could never master.” Vanimórë's face was expressionless. He shrugged. “As for Maglor, let him deny as he will, our bonds were forged in a dark place, yet despite that, no, _because_ of that, they are strung between us taut as steel and deep as blood.”  
With a salute to Glorfindel and walked to the rocks. He jumped up, catching the rugged stone, and disappeared in a silent rush, leaving the golden Vala beside the golden flowers of his grave. Glorfindel shook his head, then gathered the yellow stars and wove them expertly into a chaplet to crown another fair head.

~~~

The winter dusk was coming down when Vanimórë stepped from it to the circle of firelight. Even without power he could have sensed Elgalad's presence in a black cavern, seen the gentle moon-glow of his aura. The Elf rose in one movement, his hand already on his sword, his bow laid ready on the ground beside him. He had been cautious, but there was no alarm in his movements. He could feel his lord just as keenly.

“Is all w-well?” he asked.

“All is very...complicated.” Vanimórë picked up his cloak and lay down, wrapping Elgalad against him, feeling the thrill that shuddered through him. His arms locked tighter. Yes, Elgalad would accept anything he was given. If Vanimórë gave it, it would be a gift. But the way he felt now... _No._ He slammed down his needs as one throws a lid upon a coffer, but heat was burning off his flesh.

_How canst thou trust me when I do not trust myself?_ he wondered.

“I will tell thee in the morning.”

~~~

Legolas ran his fingers over the vellum, lifting his head a moment and looking into the darkening sky beyond the windows. The house was quiet now after the unheralded appearance Celegorm, who had looked him over, arrogant, preoccupied, saying he wished to see Glorfindel. Legolas, gathering his own lineage and courtesy about him like a cloak, had told him that Glorfindel had departed quickly on an unknown errand, but that he would pass on any message.

“No. It is a private matter.” The answer had been curt, but at the door, the one fair beauty had turned and looked at the other as if he were about to change his mind and speak, before departing in a swirl of rich cloak and hair. Legolas had known Tindómion long enough to become accustomed to the Fëanorian temperament, and did not think Celegorm deliberately boorish, but rather disquieted. He went back to the book Glorfindel had given him only this morning. He was reading it carefully, as it was very private, very beautiful and deeply sad. On the first page was written in a strong, graceful hand:  
 _For Laurëfindë Los'lóriol, my beloved brother_

And under it, _Findaráto._

It had been written after Finrod's death in Beleriand, after he and Glorfindel had been reborn in Valinor, for he spoke of Glorfindel's return to Ennorath. Legolas could read of Finrod's thoughts in the Years of the Trees, in Beleriand, even – and this would pierce the most stony of hearts, surely – his captivity in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, his despair and death. Then after, in Tirion, he had been reunited with his brother again, only to have him leave in rage at the Valar, return to the toils and battles of the Outer Lands. It seemed as if Finrod had wished to set down his innermost thoughts, the book was almost like a series of letters to one who had gone.

_I told thee I was for thee, always. And whatever thou art now, my brother, remember those words are as true now as they were when I spoke them in Tirion._

Legolas had wondered once why Glorfindel, whose name was a living legend, should be subject to moods of anger, even doubt, what drove him to master, to play games of pain and pleasure and dominance. That was before he realized that Glorfindel's personality could never be uncomplicated, for he could never forget. Legolas knew his lover well now, but reading this book he saw him from the eyes of Finrod, his elder brother, and it opened new doors in his mind, granted a deeper understanding. It was hard to imagine the bright-haired warrior as a child, running after Finrod, tumbling and playing; as an adolescent, as a young adult, uncertain and defiant and loving, learning to be a warrior when he seemed always to have been one...

“It has been long since the innocence of those years,” Glorfindel's hands settled on Legolas shoulders and slipped down to untie the laces of his shirt. “Galadriel warned, and my brothers grieved, but Finrod never judged. He simply loved. Very like thee. We all need some-one who simply loves.”

Legolas leaned back into the kiss and Glorfindel broke it to move around him, laying the circlet of flowers on his hair. Their dense color made the prince's own look silver-fair.  
Legolas reached up, his eyes questioning, and Glorfindel laid a finger over his lips, then drew from his belt a thin chain which was threaded through the leather loops. It was too long for a necklet, fashioned of tiny rings of white-gold. As he unfastened it, Glorfindel watched the rise of color into the prince's cheeks, the quickening breaths which stirred his chest, and under the soft gray breeches he hardened.  
Without a word, Legolas rose and drew off shirt, boots and leggings. Glorfindel threaded the chain through both nipple rings and closed the clasp, stepping back so that the links tautened and finally pulled.

Legolas hissed like a cat. It was a sound both of pleasure and pain, but he did not move to lessen the tension of the chain. Blood rushed red into the tender nubs of flesh. He stood, long legs, apart, crowned with flowers and leashed by metal, wholly aroused, sleek as the cougars Glorfindel had seen long ago in the lower Pelori. There was nothing of the slave about him, he looked dangerous and feral, yet he was submitting to this with sensual delight. Glorfindel tightened his fingers as one might the reins of a soft-mouthed stallion, beautiful and responsive to his touch.

“Come here,” he said.

The golden flowers fell like a shower of sunlight.

~~~

The dawn came late and the world was bound and silenced under freezing fog. Vanimórë had kept the fire low during the night, but when the begrudging light came he fed it, glad that the road had skirted ancient Hollin where they could find dead wood. The almost treeless Enedwaith lay to the west, so they used what they gathered sparingly, and only to cook game. Vanimórë knew the secret of fire now, but he was wary of such power, of any power. He could survive a long journey without it.

They had made swift time, running with their long, light strides along the ancient and empty way. Ahead, when the air was clear, the Towers of Mist rose, white-maned, their rough skirts melting into the tumbled Dunland Fells.

There was no urgency in Vanimórë's mind, despite their pace. He knew his path would lead him south, but nothing compelled him or drew him. These would be years of savoring his freedom, learning the complex nature of his powers, being with Elgalad. He stretched, smiling from that thought, from the leap of joy it brought and, stripping off boots, breeches and vest, he stepped into the icy stream. This was living, feeling the chill strike through him, knowing liberty, that he never had to return to Mordor and his master. Even now, the realization circled in his mind, wary as a wild thing. He had been a slave too long to easily accept what had come to pass, which was another reason he needed these years: to immerse himself very gradually into his new life. Wringing out his hair, he took a bone comb from his pack, drew it through the wet mass which spattered drops, hissing, into the fire.

“My l-lord.”

  
He looked over his shoulder as Elgalad sat up in the cloak, curtained with hair like a maiden. His eyes were the color of rain as he smiled sweetly, wonderingly, and Vanimórë wished he had a place for him out of the wilds. He was achingly hard, and so did not turn to face the Elf. There was no modesty in this, for he had never been permitted modesty, he simply did not want his very visible arousal to encourage Elgalad, who looked so virginal but was, he believed, no virgin; he was too aware of his body, too passionate. Those soft lips had kissed before, from affection or loneliness, curiosity or desire. Vanimórë could have looked into his mind, but that, as Glorfindel had said, was an unforgivable breach of privacy, he would use it only when he must. And not for this purpose.

“Heat some wine, Meluion,” he said gently.

By dint of some maneuvering he dressed, ignoring the cold wet pull of his hair as he sat down cross legged and and took a leather covered cup from Elgalad. Over bites of the cold grouse and sips of hot wine, he told Elgalad he would have to be gone again for a short time within the next day or two. And he told him why. Elgalad listened in silence until the end and then said, “W-will it be m-made right, my lord?”

“Nothing is certain,” Vanimórë answered thoughtfully. “Events will fall into place so that it _may_ be.” He put down the cup.  
“We will go on until then, this weather is set for some days. Only the desperate would be out in this fog. These are the worse conditions for traveling, or for raiding.”

“But _we_ w-will travel?”

“Yes. I can read the earth now, sense the Hithaeglir, and thou?” He smiled. “Where is the closest forest?”

Elgalad considered and then turned his head unerringly to the east. “Th-there is forest at the f-feet of the m-mountains.”

“So. I will not leave thee long. I need to be there. But I will never leave thee for long.” He reached out a hand, touched the lovely, high boned face. Elgalad pressed his cheek against the fine fingers trustingly and Vanimórë kissed him, a kiss as unlike the wildness of the day before as rain and fire. It was a kiss of giving, the bestowing of a heart and he felt Elgalad's spirit touch his.

_I love thee. Thou art the keeper of my soul._

Keeper and guardian of his soul. The One had known it long ago, yet it was a gamble. No-one could have forced Vanimórë to love, but Ilúvatar had trusted that his tormented, complex child would. He alone had known the enormous capacity for love and nurture in Sauron's dark-begotten son.

“I told thee my path lead south,” he said huskily.

“Yes,” Elgalad murmured. “And I t-told thee I would go wh-wherever thou goest.”

“That is not in question, I know what thou art to me now, but there may be times I have to be in the north and perhaps thee also.” Vanimórë played with the slippery silver hair. “We need to travel, but also to earn coin.” He smiled to himself at his pragmatism. He had been a slave, but had always had access to limitless wealth under Sauron and accrued his own. The goldsmiths he had placed money with in far flung cities were doubtless feeling that whatever the outcome of the war, they had benefited. He mentally shrugged.  
“If we could become guards to merchant trains, we can do both. We will find something, but I do not think we can settle anywhere for some years.”

“I do n-not mind.So we m-might come back to the n-north at whiles?”

“If we find traders journeying to or from the north, yes. They would not care we were Elves, or anything else. They simply hire good fighters.”

A slow blush of embarrassment brightened Elgalad's cheeks. “I _c-can_ fight, m-my lord. Those men...I h-have no excuses, th-they surprised m-me.”

Vanimórë felt rage stir at the memory of the wolfs-heads who had taken Elgalad prisoner, meaning to rape him, kill him, who had beaten and taunted him. They were dead now, but it had been a close-run thing.  
“Meluion.” He shook his head, passing his thumb over the full curve of the lips. “There is no warrior, of any Age who had not been wounded, or surprised. I know thou canst fight, thou didst serve King Thranduil well. I have been made helpless many times, and I was trained to be a warrior from my youth.”

“P-please, my lord, d-do not...!” The deep empathy brought Elgalad against him again, and he felt the kisses pattern his brow, his cheeks, his mouth and throat, each one a balm. “I cannot b-bear the thought of th-thee suffering.”

“He is gone and I am here, do not dwell upon it.” Vanimórë groaned as the kisses fell like dew, like fire. “Thou art healing, my dear, but be careful.” He drew back reluctantly. “I tried to make myself strong. I did not make myself ice.”

Elgalad trailed his fingers down the leather vest to the breeches where the swelling was hot and hard. The pupils of his eyes dilated. Vanimórë took his hand.

“I would not take thee here, as a soldier takes a camp follower in the grass!” he said sternly. “Do not tempt me too far.” He rose and drew Elgalad with him, seized him and kissed him with brief, fierce hunger. “Come.”

They went on as if their feet read the ground and the dense fog was no barrier, travelling through a gray-white world which seemed lifeless, but an early spring lay ahead, both of them could sense it in the earth, the air.  
And as they walked Vanimórë's mind reached out like a beacon, and watched a white ship run south through the cold winter seas. ~

~~~

  
**  
**   


  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Dûrion - Dark, Somber


	13. ~ Pride and Conscience ~

“Father, it will be better if I accompany Celegorm.”

Maedhros, leaning against the wall, nodded at Maglor's suggestion.

“If this concerns an act of one of my sons it concerns _me_ !” Fëanor turned from the window.

“No-one disputes that,” Maedhros said. “And none of us wish to. I also desire to know this, but...”

“But I cannot be trusted not to _demand_ an answer?” Fëanor supplied and while his eldest son smiled, his countenance remained somber.

“ It is true.”

“I need no-one to accompany me! ” Celegorm's words earned him a volley of burning stares and he spread his hands. “Well, _what?_ ”

“Thou canst not be trusted either,” Maedhros stated. “Go with Maglor.”

“I am not under thy suzerainty, brother!”

“We watched thee die in Menegroth: Caranthir, Curufin, thyself, and then learned thou hadst commanded thy servants to take two children and leave them harborless in the forest.” Maedhros pushed himself violently from the wall by one foot and strode over to his brother. “No.” He flung up a hand before Celegorm could speak. “I believe thou _might not_ have killed them, and I slew thy damned servant, but then, Maglor and I lived on, grieving for three dead brothers and believing _thou hadst ordered those deaths, or, hadst thou lived, would have slain the twins, not in battle-lust, but with cold calculation._ I am not thy lord now, but I am thy brother, and I would know the answer also. But I fear Glorfindel will not take kindly to thy demands considering Nargothrond, so I _advise_ thee most strongly to go with Maglor.”

There was a glint in Fëanor's eyes as he listened, purely, it seemed, for the pleasure and amusement their voices gave him. He came to Maglor's side, who turned towards him as he said, “Thinkest thou Glorfindel would refuse to tell him?”

“He bears deep angers, and griefs, as do we all.”

“Yes, as do we all,” Fëanor murmured. The hand which rested on Maglor's back conveyed both comfort and passion. The two emotions were the essence of the intense love he bore for all his sons. It was familiar, thrilling.

“...we knew that thou wert capable of the act,” Maedhros was saying, heatedly. “We were all of us capable of such acts in those years.”

“Enough.” Their father's brief command halted the argument. “Go with him, Maglor.”

In the tiny silence before Celegorm swung to face them, his face blazing, Maglor understood. Fëanor did not want Celegorm to know how those young ones had died, how long they lingered, hungry and desperate and afraid. It was one of the startling, caring facets of their father that he had so deeply missed. Glorfindel was not cruel, but if Celegorm angered him, his own long-held rage at what had come to pass in Nargothrond might spur him to fling his knowledge in the Fëanorion's face.

Fëanor looked into Celegorm's glittering, resolute eyes for a long moment, wound a tress of the creamy hair about his fingers. “Go with Maglor. And then come back and speak to me.”

Celegorm bent his head. “Yes, father.”

“I am riding down to the quays to see the ships, talk to the Shipwright, and later I need to speak with Glorfindel also. Maedhros, ride down with me, bring Fingon and send a servant to bring Tindómion and Gil-galad. Erestor will be coming with us, as will Fingolfin.” At the contemplation in Fëanor's voice, his sons glanced at one another.

“We will come, father.” Maedhros had not missed the relationships between those named. That had to be deliberate, he thought and Fëanor smiled at him.  
“There is no need now to hide thy love.”

“This is for Rosriel's benefit, is it not? She dwells aboard one of the ships.” Celegorm paused at the door, and glanced sidelong at his eldest brother under long lashes. “Thou art troubled? _She_ did not hesitate to insult thee – all of us. Why shouldst thou care what she sees? She will learn she is no wife in time. Not Fingon's wife anyhow.” He could not resist a gleam at Maglor, whose face hardened.

“We never held her up to shame and ridicule,” Maedhros said. “But we dishonored her. I would not emulate her, brother.”

“I am not suggesting making love to Fingon on the quayside,” Fëanor said, and Maedhros almost laughed.

“That would be no hardship.”

“I wish her to know that _I_ support thee. Rosriel knows me not. But she will. I want her to see that the House of Fëanor and the House of Fingolfin are united.” Fëanor took his eldest son's right hand in both his own. “Thou didst do battle with thy love long enough in Tirion, because the damned laws proclaimed it a sin – until that day.”

Maglor gazed at them, remembering. Maedhros had told him after – a long time after – coming to his rooms in glorious dishevelment.

~~~

_Maedhros walked the gardens seeing nothing, the massed flowers, the stream that plashed down the constructed little waterfalls to feed glimmering pools. He was still in hunting garb, his hair tossed by the ride which had not eased him. Nothing ever did. Being in Fingon's company was becoming unbearable, eating away at his sanity. He saw nothing until the silver sheen of Telperion was broken into prismatic radiance. Maedhros knew that light, and halted, startled out of his inner torment, as his father came toward him, and then there was nothing else to see. Everything around Fëanor melted as into a sea-mist. For a moment Maedhros thought that the Silmarils captured and held the incandescence of Fëanor's eyes, not the light of the Trees at all._

_“It is said, by the Valar,” and there was a lilt of mockery in the naming of them. “that no hand unclean, no heart that is black, or foul, can touch a Silmaril, but it be burned with agonizing pain.” And Fëanor lifted his son's hand and placed it over the center stone of the circlet. The light shone through flesh as if through white shell, outlining the graceful bones, but there was no warning pain. The luminescence was almost gentle, as if the jewels took their mood from Fëanor, who tenderly swept back the copper-bronze hair, cupped the anguished white face in his hands._

_“Thou art **my son,** and I am watching thee go mad of this love thou doth feel is unclean. Ask thyself what **I** would do.”_

_His kiss was lingering, passionate, his smile loving. And then he turned and strode away. His passing seemed to leave the garden almost dark, as if the Trees no longer shone..._

~~~

“I was burned, at the end,” Maedhros murmured. He had not wondered then why Fëanor had given his blessing to an act deemed unholy, why his own father would approve a path that the Laws denounced. He had wanted endorsement of his desires, and Fëanor had given it to him symbolically, by showing him that his soul was not twisted, his love not shameful. It was only in Beleriand that Maglor, and Fingolfin had confirmed what he had guessed at. For his father to understand so completely he had to have felt the same hungers, broken the laws himself.

“Yes,” Fëanor said. “That was Yavanna's touch, trying to hallow the Silmarils. Patronising bitch.”

“I believed...” Maglor spoke with difficulty. “I felt as if thou hadst turned from us”

Fëanor swung around, all diamond fire and glittering fury at the fate of all his sons, at himself for dying and leaving them.

“Never. ” His voice was like a Power's, a pronunciation of fate, something indisputable. “I am thy father, and I love thee.” He beckoned without moving, drawing them into the enclosure of his arms. They absorbed him as if he possessed the ability to sink into their blood, their souls, as he did and ever had; they were all struck from that perilous fire.

“Maedhros, send for the others,” he ordered, “And thou,” he touched Celegorm's cheek. “Go with thy brother to Glorfindel. Whatever betides, come back to me.”

Celegorm bent his head. “I will.”

~~~

The quill broke with a tiny snap which sounded unnaturally loud. Legolas, who had drawn a chair up to the table where Glorfindel had been writing, rose as his lover did, one hand resting on the taut back. Maglor repeated the action with his brother, whose muscles were rigid under the rich cloak. His eyes met Legolas' for a moment. Both of them were performing the same office as mediators.

“Under other circumstances I might find thine effrontery amusing.” Glorfindel dropped the broken pen. “Tell me, Celegorm: what gives thee the right to ask such a thing of me?”

Maglor heard the air draw into Celegorm's lungs. It was held there for a long moment and when he released it, his voice was careful, deliberately controlled. 

“Thou art Vala now, and thus can read my heart. So tell me: Would I have murdered those children?”

“Ah, no, it is not as simple as that.” Glorfindel shook his head, eyes hard and light as burning crystal. “Even thou doth not know.”

“No, I do not know,” Celegorm flashed back, his control shredding. “Is that not enough?”

“Glorfindel.” Maglor's tuned voice was quiet. “Maedhros and I searched...we were broken with grief, but we tried...”

Glorfindel leaned on his hands and bowed his head. When he raised it, there was deep sadness on his face.

“What thinkest thou?” he asked and Maglor drew long fingers up through Celegorm's hair, across his cheek and said, “I wanted to kill Elrond and Elros. Just for a moment, but it was there.”

“Legolas?”  
  
The prince's eyes were wide and considering as they rested upon Celegorm. He turned his head to Glorfindel, said, “There are many unhealed scars. It is one of the many sorrowful tales that have come down to our people in Lasgalen. I would also know the fate of Dior's sons'.”

Glorfindel nodded, glanced at Celegorm again, and sat back down.

“There is a part of me, a part which has seen all thine acts in Nargothrond which would like to watch thy face as I related the deaths of those children.” He spoke soft, but as a dagger sheathed in silk is soft. “I want to describe their horror and fear and see if thou canst empathize with what they felt, surrounded by war, borne away by violent strangers, struck and gagged, thrown into a desolate place in winter and left alone to die, their cries of fear becoming whimpers of shock, and hunger, weaker and weaker as they clung to one another in the cold and dark, calling for those whom had died...”

Celegorm's head jerked aside as if he had been slapped. The thick rill of lashes fell over his eyes and Maglor felt his pain as a spear which pierced them both, passing through his brother's body into his own.

“Glorfindel!” This was what Fëanor had not wanted his son to hear. “It is enough.”

“It would be enough, were it true.” Glorfindel sighed and reached out to touch Legolas, whose own face was bruised with the images his words had evoked. “Fortunately it is not, or not wholly.”

“ _What?_ ” Maglor spoke, as his brother's head snapped up. “They survived?”

“They were found,” Glorfindel said, “By some-one who was familiar with Doriath but did not dwell there. He was not in the battle, but came later.”  
“There were some survivors, besides those Elwing fled with to Arvernien. Erestor and Fanari told me the Gondolindrim refugees met Doriathrin Elves when they passed down Sirion. Two of them had gathered many of the scattered forest-folk. They lead their people east, Oropher, thy grandsire,” He looked at Legolas, who nodded. “And Amdir, who became rulers of Lasgalen and Lórinand.”

“My father said his sire and Amdir were away from Menegroth that day, and only arrived to see the aftermath,” Legolas affirmed. “Many Doriathrim lived away from Halls. They elected, in anguish, to depart the forest and seek new homes. But Elúred and Elúrin never came to the Greenwood.”

“ No.” Glorfindel said. “Their rescuer took them into Ossiriand, for a time, where he placed them into the care of another man. They chose the life of the Firstborn, and traveled over the Ered Luin before the War of Wrath.” He reached for the wine and cups and poured. Four cups, Maglor noted as he took two of them and handed one to Celegorm, who drained it in one swallow. “That must suffice thee. They knew thy names, for thy servants spoke them. They believed that Celegorm Fëanorion was coming back to murder them. And perhaps thou wouldst have.”

Celegorm stared at him, then flung around and left the room. Maglor turned to follow him, then looked back.  
“We searched and called, but why would they have answered? They feared us.”

“They would not have,” Glorfindel picked up another quill, drew the feathers through his fingers. “At least the death or Elured and Elurin is not upon thy brother's conscience.”

Maglor said, “And dost thou think Nargothrond is not?”

Glorfindel's face was bright with uncovered rage.

“It had damned well better be. It eats at me. Just as thou lovest thy brothers, I love mine. But I cannot allow the past to influence me, and Eru knows it is hard!”

“I know.” Maglor came around the table, and embraced Glorfindel. “There are too may threads that still fray loose.”

Glorfindel kissed him. He exhaled a long breath. 

“Perhaps too many,” he agreed. “But how could it have been any other way?”

~~~

Celegorm was astride his horse, oblivious of the looks he received from those passing him. He only looked around when Maglor drew his own mount alongside, and clasped his arm.

“They lived believing I would murder them.” His eyes were wide, burning their grey-black opalescence into his brother's silver and Maglor said, to ease him: “I think thou wouldst not have.”

Celegorm's proud mouth lifted a little in a parody of a smile. “No, thou art not sure, even as I am not. We did not care, then. Did we?”

“Never mind. They lived.”

Celegorm swung his horse onto the paved street. His eyes were veiled.  
“Come,” he said. “Let us go back to father.” ~

~~~

  
**  
**   


  


 


	14. ~ An Unsheathing of Swords ~

~ The wide chamber now held the all the Fëanorions, and they had been joined by Fingolfin, Fingon, Gil-galad and Erestor. The glint of jewels, silver and gold embroidery and the gem-bright eyes made Maglor think for a moment, that he walked into the past, a hall in Tirion, until he saw Tindómion smile at him. Fëanor drew Celegorm aside and spoke to him silently, the exchange of thoughts and emotions which were so much more eloquent than words. Kissing his fair-haired son on the brow he turned to the gathering and said, “Let us go.”  
  
The cavalcade descended the curve of the road to the white quays. Seagulls bawled overhead. The sky was palest blue above the havens, although to the east the world was clenched in ice and fog.  
  
The great ships nudged at the docks, ramps down, their crews voices as clear, and far sweeter than the seabirds. Mithlond, and also Forlond and Harlond, further down the firth, were far busier than they had been in an Age.  
  
Borniven hissed from the grand cabin, “My lady, look.”  
  
Rosriel rose and came to the window, watching as the riders approached, now and then halting, to speak or point to a ship. Neither her husband or son glanced toward the ship. She could see both their faces clearly. So similar were they, that she almost had difficulty telling them apart, and did not know whom she loathed more. They were absorbed with the riders beside them, and those both flaunted red hair, Maedhros' a mane of copper and bronze, Tindómion's a shade darker. As she watched, Fingon said something, smiled and reached out a gloved hand, gripping Maedhros' thigh. The Fëanorion placed his fingers over it, clasped and lifted it and, hand-fast they rode past. It was not a flamboyant gesture, but it contained a world of intimacy. Gripping the polished wood, she imagined them bound face-down and red hot spears piercing their buttocks, heard their screams of agony. It was the death they deserved, yet it was her duty to all Elvendom to make them see their wrongness, draw them back to her feet. Maedhros, however, and the damned son of Maglor would be punished.  
  
They were oblivious to her. There was Erestor, the treacherous dog, alongside mad Fëanor, Fingolfin at his right. They rode like conquering kings and she grimaced. Fingolfin should have ordered his unnatural son to disown Maedhros, banned the brothers from Hithlum, let them fall in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad while he defended their realm, the true stronghold of the Noldor. When Morgoth's hosts had been driven back she and Ereinion would have returned. Fingon had died because he had ignored her council, because he was steeped in unholiness, just as her unfilial son had died for the sin.  
She recalled her father's words after her betrothal feast, when Fingon had so precipitately left for Himring: _“Disaster snaps at the heels of the House of Fëanor, they who shamed and insulted the House of Mahtan! **Thy** House, **thy** blood ! If it is indeed true that Prince Fingon and his cousin pursue unnatural acts, it is for thee to wean him from them or the House of Fingolfin will also go down in ruin !” _  
  
And it had been ruined. When news came of Fingon's death, she had known he had reaped the reward for his acts, and felt that justice had been done. It was true the Valar punished unclean love, and her son's death and doom long after, had proved it. To be told now, by Glorfindel, whose proclivities had always been unnatural, that all was changed...were they all fool enough to believe it, and to follow the perpetrator of the Doom of the Noldor? Did they not see that this return to Middle-earth would lead again to ruin under Fëanor's rule?  
  
In the eyes and glowing faces she saw a hunger for a new life, and the old fire re-kindled. Only those wise enough to agree with her were cautious, and even they...she had had to speak sharply to one of her servants yesterday, finding her dallying with one of the Teleri crew as if she were a maiden, flushed and laughing softly. It was as if none of them could think of aught but bedding. The mark of her hand had stood out like a brand on the woman's face, but it had subdued her.  
  
“The blue cloak,” she said sharply, standing as it was draped about her.  
  
“My lady, be careful,” Borniven said. “The mad one is dangerous.I do not advise a confrontation.”  
  
Her laugh was scornful.  
“No-one would dare to touch me! I am the wife and mother of a king! And Varda Herself protects those of a pure heart. My husband died, as did my son. I did not !”  
She swept to the door and crooked a finger for him to follow. “Let them know I do not fear. Let _them_ understand that their sins will not go uncontested!”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Gil-galad could feel her. Her emotions fell upon him in a cold miasma. He had lived with that almost all his life and this was a sudden, unwelcome return to those days, to something he had believed was gone forever. Her hate and disgust smothered and clung, wearyingly familiar.  
  
“Gil.”  
  
He turned his head to meet Tindómion's gaze. Ahead of them Fingon and Maedhros had also pulled up, and were looking back at him.  
Gil-galad dismounted, and strode toward the ramp of the ship. Fëanor and Fingolfin swung their horses about. Tindómion came to Gil-galad's side as he halted, looking up, eyes reflecting the sky. Their hips touched.  
  
“Stay here,” Gil-galad commanded softly, as Rosriel appeared at the top of the ramp, cloak and gown rippled by the wind. Sapphire and gold glinted at her throat and fingers. She had arrayed and positioned herself as a queen giving audience. Borniven stood behind her. Her gaze swept over her son, passed to Fingon and then she put out one hand, waiting for it to be taken, to be lead down onto the quay.  
  
It was uncannily silent; the cry of the gulls, the sigh of the sea seemed muted, distant. No-one moved until Gil-galad slowly ascended the ramp. Tindómion began to follow him. Some-one caught his arm.  
“Wait,” Maglor whispered.  
  
“Thou wouldst beg my forgiveness?” Rosriel asked. She could not conceive of any other reason for her son to approach her.  
  
It was the first time Gil-galad had seen her since he rode away to the War of the Last Alliance. He knew Fingon had met Anairë, and the Fëanorions', Nerdanel, even though those women had not greeted their husbands. Families had been reunited with joy, yet Rosriel had not bestirred herself to greet him. He had not expected it, but now he felt again the confusion of the child called Ereinion who did not know why his mother would not hold him on her lap, whose chill, disinterested eyes slid past him as if he were insignificant.  
  
“For what need I ask thy forgiveness?”  
  
“Thou wouldst dare to ask me that? Didst thy banishment to the Void teach thee naught?” She flicked a hand toward Tindómion. Gil-galad did not need to look around to see whom she indicated.  
  
There was a groundswell of murmurs from the Fëanorions'. Fingolfin said something under his breath. Beside him, his half-brothers great horse stamped, echoing the feelings seething within its rider. Fëanor was observing, forcing back his temper as he read Rosriel, as he had always been able to read the soul of any Elf he met. And some-how, his will was restraining his sons, Fingolfin thought, as he sent his mount plunging to Fingon's side, seeing the stark white of his son's profile.  
  
He remembered how he came to suggest Rosriel as a suitable wife for his son, how, in Tirion, Ornélion had come, pledging his service in the tumultuous aftermath of Fëanor's Oath. Fingolfin had spared little thought as to why, but guessed later, that Ornélion viewed the separation of Fëanor and Nerdanel as a slight on the House of Mahtan, and that his hatred ran deep.  
  
Fingolfin would agree, in grief and bitterness, that Fëanor's abandonment of he and his people in Araman was an act of treachery, but he would not hear his dead half-brother vilified. The few times Ornélion had spoken, his hot words laced with acid, Fingolfin had simply looked at him. Whatever was in his eyes had choked the man to silence. Yet he was a brave warrior and a battle-captain, thus Fingolfin sent him to build a fortress south of Barad Eithil, reckoning to see little of him. He had been surprised when the messages sent to his high-ranking lords had brought Ornélion hastening from his stronghold, and wondered that he showed such eagerness in offering (it amounted to no less) his daughter as a bride for Fingon. Fingolfin had thought it ambition. Now he had the leisure to damn himself for a fool. Of course Ornélion had been eager. He had known of – or suspected – Fingon's love for Maedhros. To place his daughter, raised to hate the Fëanorians, between Fingon and Maedhros was an act of revenge, which also regained some lost ground for himself and his kin. How hate bred hate! Ornélion had been one of the few whom had elected to remain in the west. It was clear why. He could not endure the thought of Fëanor as High King of the Noldor.  
  
“I dare to ask, yes.” Every Elf on the ships and quayside had stopped in their tasks, every bright eye was turned on this unfolding scene. “I fear I do not understand thee.”  
  
“My lady,” Borniven warned.  
  
“Be thou silent!” Gil-galad rapped out, bringing a flush of color to the other's face and Rosriel snapped,  
“Do not dare to speak to my councilor thus! Hadst thou listened to him, listened to _me,_ though wouldst not have been slaughtered like a hog in Mordor!”  
  
Tindómion was straining at the leash of his father's arm. Caranthir, standing beside Maglor, had gone salt-white save for the flush of temper across his cheekbones. Fingolfin himself could scarcely see through blind fury. He felt the same bloom like a fire-flower in his half-brother, his son, in Maedhros, and yet he was being restrained from acting upon it. Hearing the spark of hooves on the stone, he glanced aside at Fëanor, and realized at once that it was not he who was holding them back. His teeth were bared in a snarl of white.  
  
 _Glorfindel,_ He thought. It was an odd sensation, and Fingolfin knew a desire to lash out against being so controlled.  
  
 _If she is harmed or killed thy brother's rule will end before it begins!_ Glorfindel's voice was taut. Fingolfin knew it for truth, and resented it. He saw again Fingon's death, Gil-galad's...  
  
 _This will do her more harm than any of thee._  
  
“Lady, _thou speakest to thy son!_ ” It was Fingon, such white anger in his voice that it dragged Rosriel's attention to him.  
  
“Indeed I do, my husband,” she agreed. “And when thou hast made amends for the shame I lived through, then I will consider forgiving _thee._ ”  
  
“Thou didst mock thine own son's death!”  
  
The woman's voice fell like a stone, bringing their heads around. Cúraniel stepped out from the silent spectators.  
  
Erestor had confided in her that morning, and she had sought out Fanari. Walking among the first snowdrops in the walled garden, they had talked quietly of what Erestor would do, and why. Cúraniel had come to a halt and said, wonderingly, “But how can she not love her own son?”  
  
“There seems to be no room for love in a heart that hates,” Fanari had replied.  
  
“I know what my son did, I know he was an enemy of Gil-galad, and thy son. And thee. And yet I love him. I do not want him in her camp again, even if it is all pretense.”  
  
“He has changed. And Rosriel cannot offer him what Fëanor has.”  
  
“But she influenced him, and for so long!”  
  
Fanari understood. Cúraniel had not seen her only child since before he came of age, thousands of years ago. But Fanari had known him all that time, seen him come to what he now was. She did not believe he would revert to the Erestor of Lindon.  
  
“I need to see him.” _what if his mission of secrecy separates us again?_  
  
Fanari had wondered that also. Although Cúraniel had her parents, and the great House of the Heavenly Arch, she wanted to be with her son. There was reason enough for concern, so they followed the Finwions' cavalcade down to the quays. Many Elves had made their way there, for it was a sight none had ever seen, the two half-brothers riding together as if the closest of friends.  
  
Cúraniel, who loved Erestor, whom had stood with a small knife before an onslaught of orcs who slaughtered her, was shocked at the coldness of Rosriel's face. Gil-galad was her only child, and there was nothing in her expression but contempt.  
  
“Who is this?” Rosriel demanded.  
  
“This is Cúraniel, daughter of Egalmoth, lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch, and mother of Erestor.” Fanari stepped to the woman's side. She had not wanted this, not because of any pity she felt for Rosriel, but because of the hurt it would cause others. “She is in my confidence.”  
  
Fanari had never revealed her summons after Gil-galad's death. Borniven had been proven right when he judged she would not, and if his lady wished to unleash her anger on some-one, better it be a woman who so doted on her misbegotten son that she would protect him from anything that caused him pain. Rosriel arched her brows.  
  
“Ah.” A smile tilted her rosy mouth at Fanari's continued silence. “I believe Erestor mentioned his mother. I raised him when he came to me.”  
  
It was the wrong thing to say. Erestor's eyes flashed sparks. It took all his willpower not to go to his mother, and had he not spoken long with her earlier in the day, he could not have schooled his expression to indifference. Borniven would read his face, they had known one another too long. It must look as though he were willing to be swayed, as if he harbored doubts. Rosriel could not understand the bond between mother and child, for she had never loved her son. She might believe in truth that she had more claim on him than Cúraniel. Hells, he thought, what a damned coil.  
  
His mother, who owned more bravery than her husband Salgant ever had, leaped forward in a flurry of silks, fierce as a vixen.  
  
“Thou didst not raise my son! All he learned from thee was hate!” She pointed accusingly at Rosriel. “Thou didst summon Fanari Penlodiel to thee after the Last Alliance, thou didst curse thy son and laugh at his death, and the grief of Tindómion Fëanorion, who loved him!”  
  
Tindómion's head jerked around. “ _What?_ ” At his mother's silence, he strode across to her and caught her shoulders. “What did she say to thee of Gil's death?”  
  
“I will not speak of it here, Istelion.” But that was not what she was truly saying, he thought. There was pain in her eyes, and a warning which he read as clear as if she had shouted it.  
 _It is Gil, what she said of him after he died – his own mother!_ He whirled, marched up the ramp, wondering why no-one was speaking, why the Finwions' were permitting this, why he himself was.  
  
 _I have to, Istelion._ Glorfindel. And later, when he had time to think, he would agree, but now all he wished to do was stand beside Gil-galad, touch him, buttress him against unbelievable cruelty.  
  
Rosriel was moving also, gathering her bliaut, head high at her presumed victory.  
  
“Well,” she said to her son impatiently, “Take me to my husband.”  
  
Gil-galad slammed out his arm, barring her passage. She froze.  
  
“He is not thy husband, and I am not thy son. Very clearly I am not thy son!”  
  
Her eyes narrowed, flashed to Tindómion, who breathed, “Oh, Gil !”  
  
“Stand out of my path!” Rosriel sounded breathless. “Take thyself out of my sight, _Fëanorion !_ ” The last word held the edge of a scream.  
  
Gil-galad spread his fingers, Tindómion laced his own through them, both of them forming a living barrier. Behind Rosriel, Borniven had his hand on his sword-hilt, and there were others, some faces known from Lindon, others strangers, doubtless of Tol Eressëa. None of them spoke. Tindómion drew the hand he clasped to his mouth, pressed a kiss on the lean flesh.  
  
Rosriel's blows, one after the other, swift as a serpent striking, sounded shockingly loud. One of her jeweled rings cut the corner of Gil-galad's mouth.  
  
“ _That is enough!_ ” Fingon cried, the first to reach them, drawing them back by dint of grasping their shoulders and forcibly pulling them away. “He is right, he is not thy son! An orc-sow would suckle her whelps with more love than thou ever showed him! Nothing of thy spirit went into him, for which I thank the One!”  
  
Staring into her eyes was like looking at black ice. Her face worked as if she were struggling to choose an invective to spit into his face. She made a muffled noise and choked. One hand rose to her throat, and she backed away with a hiss. At the top of the ramp she managed to say hoarsely, “Whatever has changed – and I do not believe what Glorfindel,” she turned the name into a curse, “has shown us! one thing has not: Oaths made naming the One can never be broken, _husband!_ ”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Fingolfin thought every pane of glass in the Last Cup would explode with the concentrated anger that emanated from the Finwions'. After speaking a moment to Fingon, he followed Fëanor up the stairs to his chambers. The door was still swinging as he entered the room.  
  
“Glorfindel stopped me.” Pale gold wine splashed over the edges of the goblets.  
  
“Yes,” Fingolfin acknowledged. “Or we would have...”  
  
“Killed her.” Fëanor said the unthinkable and then drank deeply, the muscles of his throat moving under the white skin. Even through his own rage, Fingolfin found his eyes arrested on it.  
“Yes. I wanted to see her, hear her, see her mind, and so I held myself and my sons back. But at the last I wanted to break her neck, and Glorfindel prevented me – us.” His eyes were wild, had become the window on his emotions, terrifying and radiant. Indeed he could have killed Rosriel in this mood, and only Eru knew what might have happened after.  
  
“He was right.” Fingolfin drained his cup, then closed his hand. The chased silver dented and then slowly crumpled. “And he had to prevent thee, for I would not have tried to stop thee. I wanted to kill her myself.”  
  
“I know.” Fëanor came around the table. “And my rule will not survive another kinslaying. Our people are like younglings tasting the white mead of Taniquetil. They are free, and no doom is on them, but they will begin to think all too soon, and to wonder at Glorfindel's choosing me as their king. Rosriel and her adherents will have to be dealt with in another way.” His fingers bit hard into Fingolfin's wide shoulders. “I suppose I should thank our Vala, but I cannot. Not yet! She does not deserve to live. She did not deserve Fingon or the son she bore. And I cannot kill her!”  
  
Fingolfin felt the inner turmoil and knew how dangerous it was for his brother, whose mind would break rather than be controlled, who was battling his desire to do murder. He had seen that expression before, in Tirion, in Araman...in this mood had Fëanor sworn the Oath, slain the Teleri at Alqualondë.  
  
“No, she did not deserve them,” he whispered. “She must be crazed to speak as she did before so many. Glorfindel said it would harm her more than us.”  
As he spoke, his hands were at the knotwork belt that girdled Fëanor's slim waist. He let it drop, his mouth tracing over the heated silk of the neck, feeling the sinews cord as his brother's head tipped back. His fingers unfastened the breeches and drew them down. With an impatient murmur, Fëanor pulled off both tunic and undershirt. Fingolfin knelt, his hands glided over ridged muscle, flat belly, rediscovering the most beautiful architecture in all Arda. He tasted the drops of liquid already welling from the engorged shaft as he took it into his mouth, and his body throbbed with memories, with need. So powerful, taut to hugeness with blood...but there was no limit to what he wanted to touch, to have. This had always been a way of possessing Fëanor, of devouring him. He felt the hardness against his tongue, his throat, and was scorched within the glory of familiar, forbidden sensation, drawing, swallowing, stroking. His hair fanned in liquid jet across the floor, and he knew his brother had always loved to see him thus, on his knees, lips about him, wanton. Whatever he said, however vehemently he protested, when they were together, like this, he was shameless.  
  
Fëanor's hand cupped the back of his head, holding him as he worked the rigid length, slowing his pace brought a gasp, a shudder. He savored the head, tracing around it, and down, teasing, until a handful of his hair was caught, his head wrenched back and he looked up into the unearthly eyes, reveling in how he could pleasure and own his half-brother. Provocatively, very slowly, he swallowed the shaft to its root and felt the building tension, the gathering and rush, swallowing as if essence were wine.  
  
The long white thighs shook as Fingolfin drained every drop, his face glowing, eyes like light. Fëanor sank to his knees, loosing Fingolfin's own straining erection, and bringing him with a few, practiced strokes to a cry of completion. It needed little.  
  
Their brows touched, sated thoughts mingling idly, unlatched by spent desire. In Tirion there had been moments like this, still points within the conflagration of coupling, secret interludes which left Fingolfin shining, times where their souls seemed to blend and flow together, when all words were superfluous.  
  
“I never forgot how well thou couldst fetch me.” Fëanor lifted a hand and drank the spilled seed. His eyes were like a well-fed cat's, still dangerous, only soothed by sex. “Or thy taste...” It blended with his own essence in the sensuous meeting of their mouths. Fingolfin's breath hitched at the eroticism of it, at the peril that was sourced in his hunger – in both their hungers for one another. He had serviced Fëanor to draw him back from the edge of thwarted violence, but he had been fiercely glad of the excuse.  
When their flushed lips parted, he whispered against the grainless skin, “Glorfindel had to restrain us.”  
  
“I know it. And I do not like it.”  
  
“No more do I.” _Only what it lead to_  
  
Fëanor laughed, that low sound of seduction which could melt the bones to hot honey. He knew Fingolfin's thoughts. He always had.  
“Where is Gil?”  
  
“Fingon and Maedhros are with him – and Tindómion.”  
  
“Good. We must see him later. I have to speak with Celegorm now, ride out with him.”  
  
Fingolfin's relief was melded with disappointment. If there had been time and privacy, his half brother would already be seducing him.  
  
“Later,” Fëanor breathed into the parted mouth. “Glorfindel and his prince will join us. He said he wished to speak to me, and I certainly wish to speak with him.”  
  
 _Us._ It sounded like one pair of lovers keeping company with another. Fingolfin tried to detach his mind from his body's instant response.  
“I have my own matters to attend to.”  
  
“Thou art my brother, and my closest confidant, my chief advisor, High Prince of the Noldor. Thy place is with me.”  
  
“I am with thee. But I have my own people to look to.”  
  
That was true, but he had to be seen to support Fëanor. His backing was as vital now as it had been in Tirion. And Fëanor had known how to ensure it, until the rage and grief of his madness had smashed their forbidden and secret unity like fragile glass.  
  
“Thou hast _shown_ me where thy place is.” Hilarity glittered for a moment in the wild eyes, and Fingolfin flashed, on a surge of temper, “I am thy half-brother, not thy plaything!” He came to his feet, fastening his breeches, pulling his tunic straight. “Wouldst thou bind me to thee as thou didst before? Was it necessity, even then?”  
  
“Necessity?” Fëanor caught his waist, jerked his hips forward, and nuzzled his groin. “There is still that doubt in thee – that I played thee like a harp for mine own ends.” He rose smoothly.  
  
“The thought does have house-room in my mind, after thine abandonment of my people to death or shame!”  
  
“It would be easier for thee to resist me if that were true, Nolofinwë, would it not?” Although Fëanor was easily and quickly learning the Sindarin tongue, he slipped often into Quenya, especially in warmth or intimacy. Fingolfin could hear the way his voice softened and slowed over the syllables, savored them. It was a warning signal as clear as a beacon-fire.  
“But we both of us know the truth of it.” The strong fingers cupped his buttocks, drew him against the hardness that was burgeoning again. “I did not take thee here, but I could have. And I _will_ have thee. To absolve thyself by telling thyself that what thou didst was less of a sin, was expediency, is mere self-justification. Thou hast never been a coward, Nolofinwë.”  
  
“All those explanations are true, and I was _glad_ to touch thee again, to know I could please thee,” Fingolfin admitted, biting off the words, burning up at the swelling member pressing against his own. “But I will fight this incestuous lust, for mine own sake, because – ah, hells ! _how can it be right to want my own blood brother so much?_ And after thy betrayal, I must be mad indeed!” He wrenched back and spun on one foot.  
  
Fëanor brought his fist down on the wine table, toppling the goblets, tipping the wine-flagon.  
“I was made to see thy death! Thou wert shown mine! Wouldst thou have given thyself to me to save me? Then thou hast the answer, my beautiful brother.”  
  
Fingolfin turned at the door. “Yes, I would. As I said: I am as mad as thee! And it is a sin!”  
  
Fëanor smiled, feral and brilliant. “It is a magnificent sin, is it not?” ~  
~~~  



	15. ~ Hearts That Love, Hearts That Hate ~

 

 

 

~ In his rooms, Gil-galad sat back, eyes closed, fingers pressed against his temples. Tindómion laid a hand on his knee. Fanari, who had been asked to come with them, heated wine over the fire.  
  
“Do not heed her.” The love in Tindómion's voice was naked, and Gil-galad's heart responded to it even as he thought, _Were we alone, wouldst thou so cast aside thy shield, Istelion?_  
  
Fanari thought of Gil-galad's crowning amidst the serene willows of Nan Tathren. He had looked so like his father, but carrying a weight of grief and destiny that sat heavily on his shoulders. She wondered if he had truly harbored a hope that his Rosriel would greet him with love, her only son who had died long ago under the red skies of Mordor. Galadriel had once said to her, when they were speaking of Rosriel: _I cannot heal hate. That is beyond any power on Middle-earth or in Aman._  
  
“I do not heed her, but I wish she had not returned. This is like walking under the black clouds of Mordor.” Gil-galad covered Tindómion's fingers with his own and gripped them. “As it always was.”  
  
“She may think what she wishes, but she has no power any longer,” Tindómion responded savagely. “She has been driven mad by her hate and cannot bear to think that which was once punished was never wrong in the eyes of Eru.”  
  
“It would take Eru Himself to tell her and even then I doubt she would accept it.” Their eyes met, so close that their brows almost touched. “Words have power, Istelion. _Belief_ has power. It is possible she and her adherents could cause trouble again.”  
  
The knock at the outer door brought their heads around. A moment later, Fingon and Maedhros entered the room, their anger running ahead of them like a bow-wave. Maedhros halted as Fingon crossed to his son, and said to Fanari: “Thou didst always love thy child? Even though his begetting was an act of brutality?”  
  
 _He wants to know if a mother can love a child not engendered in love._  
  
“I have always loved him, my lord Maedhros. How not?”  
  
“How not, indeed?” he echoed. “When we spoke, in Imladris...” He paused. “I knew thee, that day. I could have prevented my brother from violating thee. I am forgiven as Maglor is? Because of thy love for Istelion?”  
  
 _Istelion._ His fathers kin called him by the name Gil-galad had given him. He was one of them. He had been Fëanorion since his birth, she had known it. And she remembered Maedhros' face at the Havens of Sirion, where her son had been conceived, the grief limning it to white bone, the fresh agony of loss and the older one, the one which could never be assuaged, burned into the blasted, beautiful eyes.  
  
“I loved my son when his soul touched mine,” she said carefully, for she would not reveal that she had been dying until that moment, the time when the conception flowered in her body. Feeling the bright new being she had loved it and began the climb back into life, for the child, for his father. _Love is stronger than hate. Why cannot Rosriel see that?_ Tindómion looked back at Gil-galad, whose face was lifted to his father's. Fingon wiped the cut on his lip with a damp cloth, gently as if if Gil-galad were a child.  
“My father believes this to be his fault.” He tossed the cloth onto the table, gently pressed his fingers to the torn flesh.  
  
“No.” Gil-galad rose abruptly. “It had to be her! For thee to wed her, rather than one who might have come to an understanding with thee. What punishment would that be? Ornélion hated all the Fëanori, but do not tell me the Valar had no hand in Fingolfin's choice!”  
  
“It would be a rare woman who would easily accept that her husband loved another, a male, and his own cousin,” Fanari offered. “I could not have.”  
  
“Had the Valar not thrust their Laws down our throats in Valinor, there would have been no need for Maedhros and I to hide our marriage! ” Fingon's hands clenched into tight fists, the knuckles gleaming white. “And yet...one good did come out of it, as my father prophesied. Thou.”  
  
“ _Adar._ ” His son's eyes warmed, the darkness lifted from his face.  
  
Maedhros moved forward and kissed Gil-galad's brow, looked at Tindómion's grave countenance. “I could forgive her almost anything had she loved thee, Gil.”  
  
“I cannot forgive a woman who would deem her husband and son's death _just,_ and relish the thought of their souls lost in the Eternal Dark.” Tindómion's flat, controlled rage was more alarming than violence. “Erestor spoke to me, long after. I always wondered was it my fault she hated Gil so much. Would she have loved him had I not been seen to...influence him. Erestor was there, when news came of thy death, Gil. He told me her reaction.”  
  
“Baesel and Borin were with me when I felt thee die.” Gil-galad turned his head to Fingon's. “She did not weep, nor show shock, then or after, it was as if she heard a tale of a stranger's death...” The cut corner of his mouth lifted. “Influence me,” he repeated sardonically. “Yes, I suppose thou must have _influenced_ me, Istelion. Just as Maedhros _influenced_ my father. And had I wed, begat children, still that would not have altered her dislike of me. My father was gone, but I remained. I looked like him, I loved him. I ruled as he ruled, and perhaps she guessed I was like him in other ways when I would not marry. And I loved a Fëanorion, as my father did.”  
There was something wild and tender in Tindómion's eyes, he raised a hand, offering comfort in touch.  
  
 _But only when there are others to curb thee, Istelion,_ Gil-galad thought.  
  
“I spoke to Glorfindel.” Fingon smoothed his fingers up the curve of the white cheek. “I do not envy him, being able to open the past as if it were a book and see it before his eyes. I know she felt herself vindicated by my death. I know she...rejoiced in thine.” He looked at Fanari, who was frowning. “Istelion returned to Lindon mad with grief, not so?”  
  
“Yes.” She could not bear the memory of those days, the helplessness of seeing her son burned to the core by Gil-galad's death, his eyes open wounds constantly searching for the one who was gone.  
  
“And she summoned thee to gloat over his grief, lady.” Maedhros' calm was as preternatural as Tindómion's. “They could not summon thy son, or were afraid to, after all, the blood of the Kinslayers was in him.” His mouth set. “I know not what I would have done if any had taunted me with Fingon's death.”  
  
“And thou didst never tell me,” Tindómion accused.  
  
“I could not,” she said. “Yes, I did fear what thou wouldst do, but more, how could _any-one_ repeat the words of a woman who gloried in her own son's death and the pain it caused another?”  
  
Tindómion raised his mother's hands to his lips, then whipped around and his arms locked about Gil-galad as if he would protect him from Rosriel's hatred. There was a fierce possessiveness in it, love like another fire in the chamber.  
  
“She laughed at thy grief?” Gil-galad stepped back, eyes still holding the Fëanorian silver and prompted Fanari. “ Lady?”  
  
“Sire...”  
  
“ Tell me. I would hear it.”  
  
She hesitated, her voice, when she spoke, was deliberately distant.  
“She mocked my son's bereavement...and the thought of thy soul thrown into the Void.”  
  
Maedhros stood shoulder to shoulder with Fingon, both their faces were shining with wrath.  
“Her father did not return.” His voice was beaten into flat steel. “Rosriel had no reason to, save one. Malice. She is the very essence of the hate of the Valar for our _unholy_ lusts. But the old Laws were wrong and are now dead, and she has never confronted my father.”  
  
“She almost did,” Fingon said hardly, “She almost died today.”  
  
“Glorfindel held us back.” Tindómion pressed a goblet into Gil-galad's hands. “Wisely. Now Rosriel has exposed herself before many. Those that were not there will hear by dusk. Ships will go to Harlond and Forlond. She found the thought of her son in the Void _amusing?_ ”  
  
“She was half mad with rage when she sent for me,” Fanari murmured. She would not repeat the words she had heard. “Her hate has always seemed disproportionate to the perceived shame she endured.”  
  
“She suffered no public shame wed to Fingon, lady, I do assure thee!” Maedhros smashed down the winecup he held. Fingon said:  
“I would not shame any-one. I promised myself that she would know only kindness and courtesy in the marriage, but she lost no opportunity to show her hatred. Yet her weapons were not mine. Only when I realized what she was doing to my young son did I publicly stand against her. But now...! Listen to me, Gil, thou art _my son,_ and thou art loved!”  
  
“ _Adar,_ I have always loved thee. I thought of Maedhros as my second father. I did not have a mother's love, but I have been loved.”  
  
“I left thee too young, but there was no help for it.” Fingon drew him close and Gil-galad, who had seen his father's death, had been forced to watch it in the Void, shuddered from head to heels. Nothing could be forgotten. Every death, every grief, resonated through the warp and weft of their souls, through history itself, and the echoes never faded. In the emptiness of the Outer Dark Morgoth had the power to make his enemies suffer through the visions he forced upon them. He believed they would break, that their egos be demolished, and they would not exist save as shadows of madness. Not utter dissolution, but close enough.  
They had witnessed, and Morgoth had failed, for in the end, all that remained was love and a defiance that fixed their souls in Time, lost flames in the Outer Dark...  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Dusk came down over the Havens like an exhalation of relief. The lanterns of the moored ships formed a chain of gems. With a swift jerk of both hands, Tindómion drew the heavy drapes across the windows. He heard Gil-galad's voice and his father's answer, before the door gently closed. After a moment came the sound of pouring wine.  
  
“Gil...”  
  
“Istelion?” The voice was beside him.  
  
The words were difficult to form. He did not look around.  
“Thou wert expecting something from her?”  
  
“Not truly. I wondered how she might greet me – and my father.”  
  
At that answer, at what lay under it, Tindómion turned.  
“I had no father, but I was never...”  
  
“Thou didst stand by me.”  
  
“Didst thou think I would not? ”  
  
Gil-galad shook his head. “No. I know thou wouldst – before others.”  
  
Tindómion's brows drew together. He lifted his hand, his fingers slid slowly into Gil-galad's cataract of black hair, his eyes fixed on the cut at the edge of the beautiful mouth.  
“How could she do that?” he whispered, as his lips touched the torn flesh. Gil-galad's head moved to meet them, his lips parted. Their bodies locked, fingers questing through hair, over cloth, the hard play of muscles beneath both. Tindómion felt the uprush of need in him as if he were a fire and Gil-galad lamp-oil thrown upon it.  
  
 _I need to feel his reality, I need him. I never touched him enough, never showed my love enough..._  
  
Then why did he so control himself when everything within him demanded that he follow his desires to their end. What did he fear? To surrender? or to possess something he could not bear to lose again?  
  
 _I will not lose him again, we are not damned any longer._  
  
Gil-galad broke the kiss abruptly.  
“I will not have thy pity,” he hissed. “Wouldst thou have kissed me without pity? Wouldst thou have embraced me had my father and Maedhros not been here?”  
  
“Yes. Do not see calculation to everything I do, Gil.” Tindómion was thrown off-balance by the kiss, the sudden ending of it.  
  
“But there is calculation in it, _Nárya._ And now, when I could easily use pity against thee, I will not. For thou thyself set the rules for this game of ours, and would change them at a whim.” He laughed, a sound of hard humor. “I could use pity to have thee now, could I not? And by the Hells I want thee. But I will not have thee this way. Thou art not the only one with pride.”  
  
Tindomion slapped a hand against his forehead and turned away.  
“I wanted to comfort thee.”  
  
“Comfort is not what I want from thee, not when thou wouldst use it as an excuse to touch and rouse me – as thou hast.” He caught one of the Fëanorion's hands, pressed it to his groin. “We both know what we want, but I will not be toyed with.”  
  
“Thou knowest me better than I know myself?” The voice was deep, furred like velvet with need.  
  
“We have played this game a long time, I know what limits thou doth set.” Gil-galad stepped back. “Yes, Istelion, I know thee to a hairsbreadth.”  
  
Tindomion took two deep breaths. He was conscious of mortification, balked hunger, of wanting to wrestle Gil-galad to the floor and take him. He felt as if they had been sparring and he had been foiled. Somewhere he was aware of the thrill of it; a game, yes, but far more, and with too many complex levels. He must learn to guard against impulse, and that would be impossible, Gil-galad was there, close, real, _alive,_ and he could no more distance himself than stop breathing. Thus they two would continue this thrust and parry of sword-on-sword even now when nothing prevented them from loving.  
  
 _We became accustomed to this. And I did toy with him, there was a sense of power in it. But I loved him then, and I love him now. I thought I could go so far and no further, but to the damned Valar it did not matter. Our dooms were certain because we did not feel shame._  
  
“I am sorry that thou wouldst see pity from me as unacceptable.” He attempted to infuse coolness into his tone. “Or think that I would deign to use it as a ruse to touch thee.” He walked to the door of the chamber, turned his head.  
  
Gil-galad enunciated through white teeth, “And I say again: I want thy desire, not thy pity.”  
  
A long look passed between them. Tindomion laughed disbelievingly and strode from the room.  
 _I have desired thee for so long I would not know any other way to exist. Why didst thou not just take me then? Whom is more proud?_  
A moment later the outer door shut loudly behind him.  
  
 _Father?_  
  
Inside the chambers, Gil-galad threw himself upon the padded settle.  
  
 _Sometimes I could flog thee, Istelion, yet it is good to know that I can unbalance thee. We love. We need, yet I have been told to give thee time. I understand that. It is also overwhelming for me, to know that thou art here, that I can turn and see thee, feel thee..._ He picked up the wine and sipped. _And so, we will dance as we did before, beloved. Until the dance ends. And thou wilt give thyself to me._  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The activity of Mithlond did not noticeably diminish with the onset of dusk. Borniven was in his own cabin, wondering how greatly Rosriel's outburst had damaged her credibility. Those who staunchly supported her would endorse her, he believed, but there was little use in hoping her vocal attack on Gil-galad and Fingon would be overlooked by the majority.  
  
He had no-one else, therein lay the problem. Through her marriage, Rosriel stood higher in power than any other of his connections. He would never abandon her. She had formed his views and molded him, and he, the son of one of Salgant's scribes, intelligent but not noble-born, had always envied the Noldor kings and princes. Envy had easily become hate. His friendship with Erestor had only thrived because when Gondolin fell. Both were equal, were left with nothing. He shuttered the lamp and sat back in the dark, mulling over the events of the day carefully. There was hope in them, he thought, for none of the Finwion's had dared touch Rosriel.  
He did not realize why.  
  
Erestor himself, after a careful interval, had gone to Cúraniel and allayed her fears and maternal anger as best he could. He did not know what Fëanor planned, but had to be prepared for it, and not seen to be close even to his own mother. He knew that there was no true need for him to spy upon Rosriel's faction, for Glorfindel could have seen their internal workings. This play of politics, however, was potent to the Noldor, and he guessed especially to Fëanor; the more convoluted the more enjoyable. In any event, Glorfindel had told him that he would intervene only when it was necessary. He did not intend to over-watch the Noldor.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Fingolfin had deliberately timed his arrival in Fëanor's chambers to ensure they were not alone. Even as he thought it, as a servant opened the chamber door, he smiled grimly. He fooled no-one. Heat flooded his veins and spiked straight to his loins whenever he so much as laid eyes on Fëanor.  
Glorfindel and Legolas were already in the ante-chamber, unloosing their cloaks, and turned as he entered. Fëanor came through an inner door and gestured for them to join him.  
  
The Last Cup was spacious, but it had never before had to accommodate so many Noldor who had been kings and princes and accustomed to great houses and palaces. Everything seemed to contract around them. Thus there was a sense of intimacy about this small small gathering, a simple meal laid out on low tables, the floor scattered with down-filled cushions, soft lanterns, the drapes half-drawn across the windows.  
  
“I thank thee for accepting my invitation.” Fëanor smiled over the rim of his goblet. “And I suppose,” he added, “That I must thank thee for thine actions this day, Golden One.”  
  
“I could not trust any of thee to control thyselves,” Glorfindel responded frankly. He looked magnificent, his emerald tunic embroidered with gold thread, the shoulders sewn in an intricate design of celandines that flowed down the silk. Legolas' bore a similar pattern of bronze beech leaves on yew-green, as if he had stood under a tree as it's leaves were drifting down. Both wore their hair in the formal braids of their Houses and circlets of nobility about their brow. Fëanor recognized the defense of the attire and laughed inwardly, imagining what it would be like to disrobe them, uncovering the gold and cream of flesh over sinew. Glorfindel's eyes snapped crystal-bright warning. A faint flush bloomed over Legolas' cheeks. He had already come to realize that Fëanor lived by his own laws.  
  
“Yes, I would thank thee also,” Fingolfin said somberly and Fëanor glanced aside at him.  
  
“I wanted to strangle her myself,” Glorfindel admitted and Fëanor turned the fork in his hand as if it were a weapon.  
  
“I was seen to do nothing, and that must not be.”  
  
“It is not a weakness in thy character _not_ to kill some-one who is so obviously disturbed. Thy restraint only underlines her own lack of it.”  
  
“So, my people will consider that I have become reasonable and do not deign to punish a fool?” Fëanor raised his brows. “What she said cannot be forgotten or forgiven. _I_ will not forgive it. I saw Fingon's death, I saw his son's.” He laid down the fork. “Can she?”  
  
Glorfindel's eyes narrowed. “Ah.” The one world was drawn out, thoughtful. Legolas looked from one to the other, and Fingolfin said:  
“Thou couldst do that?”  
  
“Yes.” Glorfindel confirmed.“ I can make her see it.”  
  
“Then do it,” Fëanor ordered. “Let her see the agony of their deaths and if it wakes any grief in her, perhaps her guilt will be greater than any punishment I could devise.” He watched as Fingolfin raised his head, his eyes distant with memories. Impulsively, reaching across, he touched one hard cheek, felt the pain through the structure of blood and bone. Fingolfin started.  
“Fingon is thy son,” Fëanor whispered intensely. “Gil-galad is thy grandson.”  
  
A spasm of wild emotion shook across the white face.  
“Yes.” Fingolfin said. “She should see it.”  
  
“I want Erestor to be back in her confidence when it happens,” Fëanor stipulated. “He did not betray himself today. So.” He leaned on one arm. “What brings thee to my table this night, Laurëfindë?”  
  
Glorfindel put down his winecup. “It concerns the both of thee. And it is as hard a matter as Rosriel.”  
  
Fëanor's eyes became focused flame. He always could fix his attention on something as acutely as an eagle spying its prey. It was one of the attributes that made him so brilliant, that utter concentration.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I have seen Maeglin.”  
  
The half-brothers stared at one another. Fingolfin felt an intense rage take him. He was on his feet without being aware of rising.  
 _Towers were falling, bells chiming in a clangor of lament and death. Turgon heard the screams of a dying city, felt the shudder of the tower..._  
He had seen Gondolin's fall. been made to see it.  
  
“Where?” He shot the word like an arrow-bolt.  
  
“At my grave. It remains as one of the rocky isles that were the Ecoriath.”  
  
“What was he doing there, honoring thy sacrifice?” Fëanor uncoiled himself and was at Fingolfin's side. His face blazed, his words were acid.  
  
“In a sense,” Glorfindel responded tersely. “He has been told there is something he must do on Middle-earth.”  
  
“Indeed there is. He must account for his treachery before the Noldor.”  
Fingolfin could feel the fury burning off his brother. The luminous eyes caught his and held them. He said, not looking away from them, “He betrayed Gondolin, his own people, his own _kin!_ ”  
  
“People lay the Doom of the Noldor upon Fëanor's shoulders,” Glorfindel said flatly.  
  
“I never struck a bargain with Morgoth Bauglir.” Fëanor's anger exploded outward, shook the room like the passing of fire.  
  
“This is not of my making. I _died_ because of Maeglin's treachery. Morgoth laid a curse upon the innocent that caught many others in its net. It may be broken, and Maeglin is part of it.”  
  
“Morgoth's curses and the Valar's are so similar are they not? What in the Hells does Maeglin need to do on Middle-earth that cannot be done by another?”  
  
“Before I tell thee that, there is something – some-one – neither of thee have touched on,” Glorfindel said. “Aredhel. She loved Maeglin. She saved his life. I witnessed it.”  
  
“She has not said anything of him.” Fingolfin thought of the change wrought in his proud, passionate daughter. Outwardly there was none, but her eyes told another tale. Her silence on the subject of Maeglin was more telling than words. And as far as he knew, not even Turgon had spoken the name of the traitor of Gondolin.  
  
“She has the right to know of this, and to see him if she wishes.”  
  
Fëanor was silent. The chamber became a place of memory, the air a fragile thing, waiting for some-one to break it.  
  
Fingolfin stirred. He walked to the door, and said to a waiting servant, “Find the Lady Aredhel and bring her here.”  
  
He was tense with conflicting emotions. Aredhel, his daughter, whom he had judged safer in Gondolin, whom had fretted there until Turgon allowed her to leave, whose impulsive actions had begun the working out of Gondolin's doom. Glorfindel had been one of those who escorted her from the city, but not to Fingon, as Turgon had commanded. Aredhel took orders badly. She had never, Fingolfin believed, intended to see her elder brother. She had missed her cousins, the Fëanori and demanded her escort make the perilous journey into the east, taking her into Nan Dungortheb.  
  
Glorfindel was looking back into that past. He felt the nudge of a mind on his consciousness and found Fëanor gazing back at him.  
  
 _My attention wavered. The place reeked of dread, and so my mind sought something brilliant enough to dispel it and fixed upon him: Tirion, tossed hair and sheets, the pain and passion of him, the fire that was before the sun and moon. And in that moment of time, Aredhel was gone..._  
  
No-one spoke after that until, with a sweep of silks and black hair, Aredhel stood in the doorway. Her eyes, the pale silver-white she had passed on to her son, held curiosity as she swept into a graceful reverence, and was raised up by her father's hand. Her lips parted on a question, but something in Fingolfin's face stopped her and her own became wary.  
  
“Aredhel,” Glorfindel said, his voice gentle. “I have seen and spoken to Maeglin.”  
  
Fingolfin caught her, felt her mental wail as she stared at him, at Glorfindel. Her hand came up to cover her mouth. Her eyes closed, and then she said, “Where?”  
  
“Sit down,” Fingolfin ordered.  
  
“ _Where?_ ” she cried. “I was told he was not released from the halls of Waiting.”  
  
“He has to return to Middle-earth, but I can see no way that he can come to New Ciuvienen.”  
  
“But then where will he go? _I have to see him._ ”  
  
“I know,” Glorfindel said. “Listen to me. This is a greater matter than it seems.”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
He stood at the prow of the ship, the briny wind streaming through his hair. Traitor, they called him. Cursed. He had known that, in the eternity of the void. He regretted Gondolin, but not Glorfindel and not Idril. Idril was gone beyond his reach now, and Glorfindel despised him. The hate in those crystal-blue eyes had been violent.  
  
He almost smiled. _Was it not strange that I was consigned to the Everlasting Dark for wanting thee, and not for my betrayal? Ah, Glorfindel, I did truly regret the way thou didst die, all that bright beauty burned and broken..._  
  
And now this, his task.  
  
 _I see,_ Maeglin had said, considering what he had learned.  
  
 _There are others who have the skill, but they are not bound into the tale, as thy blood is._  
  
Maeglin's face was impassive under the cool pallor of the sun. _Why?_ he had asked.  
  
 _That is not for thee to know. Yet. Not for me either. There are greater powers working here._  
  
A call came from the rigging, and he raised his hand to his eyes. The isle was so small that only the far-sighted Elves could descry it from this distance. The ship-master had looked oddly when he discovered his destination. It was a place of sadness, where ruin had come down, the distillation of a God's curse.  
  
Tol Morwen, it was called.  
  


~~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nárya - My flame, a name that Gil-galad gave Tindómion in the Second Age


	16. ~ Many-Coloured Threads ~

  
~ The braziers burned sweet, bringing the scent of summer herbs into the room. 

Fëanor said into the silence, his voice mellowed to it, to the old sorrow. “Yes, I saw this tale in my...captivity, and have heard it since. But knowest thou how such a thing can be reversed without time running back?”

Aredhel glittering in the soft lamplight, said quickly, “It may be a matter beyond our understanding as yet, but Lómion was permitted to depart the Halls of Waiting to effect his part in this, and no-one shall prevent me from seeing my son.” Resolve molded the bones of her face as she lifted it to her father.

“Thou must know that he will not be permitted in New Ciuviénen, not now, and perhaps never,” Fingolfin warned her. “If he were to account to no-one else he would have to account to Turgon.”

“Who treated him as a son, and gave him every honor, and that was not enough.” Glorfindel's voice was unforgiving, and she tossed up her head, the Aredhel of old, beautiful, and _difficult._ Yet she loved her son, a traitor, and Rosriel hated Gil-galad, who had done nothing but love against the old Laws and had died fighting the Enemy. A mother's love was a power all of its own. She might be the only one who could ensure Maeglin's continued existence.

“To thy question, Fëanor, I have no answers yet. Certainly the Valar have not the power to amend that tragedy.”

“Dost thou not know _all_ that happens concerning the Elves?” There was the spice of a taunt in that.

“The Valar are not omniscient,” Glorfindel said with fraying patience. “They never were. Yes, I know all that concerns the Elves, if I need to know, if I look. I am not inclined to spy on them or to meddle, unless I deem it necessary.” He leaned on the last word. “But this does not concern the Elves alone.”

“Lómion was used.” Aredhel, caught in her own emotions, paced the room in a hush of silvery skirts. “The Valar used us as the instruments of our own doom.”

Glorfindel looked at her with a touch of pity. “Nevertheless, he had a choice, Aredhel. We all do. Yes, I believe Gondolin was doomed from when we laid its first stones. It would have fallen. Maeglin was the finger of that doom. Perhaps he was walking a pre-destined path, but he still had a _choice._ None of us are slaves.”

She stopped, folded her arms over her breast. There was a flush on her cheeks.  
“And yet I have the right to see him.”

“Thou wilt see him, but under certain conditions.” Glorfindel held her defiant stare. “And this is for thy son's safety, not thine own.”

She nodded once, but her lip hard as if to keep back further words.  
“Very well, for _his_ sake.”

“He will not go by his name in Imladris.”  
Her eyes flashed at that.  
“Only Elrond and his sons will know whom he is. And I do not yet know if they will agree to his presence. I only know that he has to be there.”

Fëanor had walked to the windows and was tapping his fingers on the glass. He turned, looked at his niece and saw the leap of fear in her eyes.  
“Father?” She swallowed.

Fingolfin glanced at his brother, saw the arrogant lift of his brows, and heard, _She thinks thou canst influence me._

“If Maeglin has a destiny to live, then none will be permitted to harm him.” Fingolfin's voice held melded tones of love for his daughter and hatred for the treachery of her son. “But thou wilt be guided by Glorfindel and not by thine own whims as thou wert in Gondolin.”

She searched his face, inclined her head. “I have agreed, _adar._ ”

“When will he arrive?” Fëanor asked.

“Thou knowest I will not tell thee.”

“Glorfindel!”

“ _No._ ” Glorfindel leveled his voice like a lance. “I do not trust thee. In this matter there are few I do trust.”

“Am I, or am I not thy king?” Fëanor took four strides across to him and faced him, their eyes clashing like two lightning strikes.

“No. Thou art not _my_ king, thou art the high king of the Noldor, and I have other duties both to the Noldor and every Elf in Ennorath or Aman. I am outside thy rule. I have to be.” Glorfindel's voice lowered. “I support thee, I saw the as high king in Fos Almir. But I saw _every_ possibility. Listen and understand. I am an Elda with the power of a god. The Elves must look on me as Glorfindel, but as apart from them, not as one they might wish to be a king.”  
 _And thou knowest, too, that they will consider that, if they have not already. A few love thee, many mistrust thee – and some hate thee. They accept thee because a Valar pronounced thy kingship, because they have felt my power. Thou must be worthy of it – and of them! Do not make them look to me, Fëanor. I do not want the high kingship, nor do I wish it forced upon me._

Fingolfin moved to his brother's side and caught his wrist even as the spirit within Fëanor burned up, perilous and powerful.

“Do not.” His voice was a whip-crack. “For Eru's sake, we _have to show unity!_ ”

Somewhere within his fury, Fëanor was thinking. He saw what Glorfindel had to do, had to _be,_ saw that he could not be considered a subject. He was attempting to distance himself enough so that he was not – and never would be – considered a candidate for kingship, yet remain close enough for his support of Fëanor to be clear. But he would not be ruled. He had to be seen to remain aloof from the politics of the Noldor, while working with Fëanor if necessary.

Fingolfin's fingers were like steel, unrelenting in their grip until he felt the melt of tension from the sinews under them. Legolas had come to Glorfindel's side, his whole body suggesting coiled violence. Aredhel's fingers were locked together. The danger sank gradually like an ebbing fire.

“We need to talk, thee and I. Alone,” Fëanor said, soft as a blade into the throat.

“We will _always_ need to talk,” Glorfindel agreed, and something glittered, feral and unearthly in the diamond of Fëanor's eyes.  
“Turgon should not be informed of Maeglin, thy loving brother or no,” he said to Aredhel, gaze still locked with Glorfindel's.

“Of _course,_ uncle, thou hast always known what is the best for thy people,” she exclaimed. “Do not _thou_ pass judgment on Lómion. He was cast into the Void for his acts, as thou wert. Have thine owns sons been threatened death for what they did in Doriath, or at the Havens of Sirion? Hast thou?”

“They have paid in full measure. Let those who desire their blood or mine come to _me._ ” Fëanor teeth glinted in a war-hounds snarl as he turned at last from his silent duel with Glorfindel, neither conceding, both accepting a brief truce. “But it is as thou sayest, there are many old hates and wrongs that are not forgotten. I am not oblivious to them. Do not thou add to them.”

Fingolfin loosed his hand, slid it lightly down over his brother's in a warning touch. Fëanor revolved his wrist, laced their fingers in an unmistakably proprietorial gesture then released them.  
 _Nolofinwë,_ he heard the need and the faint amusement in the caress of his name, and reached out to take his daughter's arm.  
“We also need to talk,” he told her, and felt Fëanor's eyes on his back as he left the room.

When he was alone, Fëanor sent for Erestor.

“Thou wilt tell Rosriel I have made demands on thee thou canst not, in good conscience accede to,” he whispered as he held Erestor stretched and quivering, writhing under him to feel more, to feel the shocks of pleasure begin.  
“And it will be true, I have not shown thee a fragment of what I would like to do.” Then he pushed and Erestor cried out and all further words were lost.

~~~

Tindómion paused at the end of the hallway, looked back. He did not want to leave Gil-galad alone. He thought of Fingon gently bathing his son's lip, and tenderness and desire warred within him. Before him a window reflected his face by lamplight. It showed nothing of his emotions. He had learned to hide them too well.

_I want thy desire, not thy pity!_

He touched his mouth, rose-blushed with the shared kiss, and thought of a lifetime of desire – and the fear that lurked at the back of it. He groaned, spun back, and the lamp at the head of the stairs illuminated Vórimóro as he walked to Gil-galad's door.

He must have been called. A flare of red jealousy scorched through Tindómion's body. He had always counted Vórimóro a friend, but there had been restraint between them from the beginning, and he had wondered if there had been something deeper between the High King and his companion which might have flowered, despite the Laws, were it not for his own advent into Gil-galad's life.  
As the door opened, Vórimóro looked around, and their eyes met. Then Gil-galad's hand and forearm emerged in a gesture of welcome, and Vórimóro vanished into the room. The door shut softly.

Tindómion struck the wall with a clenched fist.  
 _He loves me. He would not..._

But truly, how did he know? They were like stags in rut, all of them, it was part of the new life they had been given. But they were not animals, they could control their bodies if need be. And he could not know, because he would not ask, if Gil-galad had sought others beside him, when he had been away from Lindon.

_Istelion._

He was still startled at the close connection with his father, how Maglor was able to feel his emotions. Refusing to look back again, he walked swiftly down the next hallway until he came to the Fëanorions chambers.

Caranthir, talking in a fierce undertone to Maglor, glanced up as Tindómion came through from the ante-room.  
“Istelion,” he said, and then moved to leave, kissing his brother's cheek. “Ride out with me tomorrow. Father charges both of thee to accompany us.” He laid a firm hand on Tindómion's shoulder, squeezed it before he left. Maglor gazed at him for a long moment, and drew his son into his arms.

“I think I can read thy mind as well as thou canst read mine,” he murmured and drew back. “We all need time. Some of us more than others. I have no other wisdom for thee.” His voice was as gentle as the light trace of his fingertips over Tindómion's brow and cheek, and his son groped through a confusion of emotions.

“I wonder... ”

“What?”

“I saw so many wed, in Lindon, beget children and their passion fade. They became married friends. Friendship is without price, but why should their desire burn out? We believed that was the way we were, as a race.”

“I know, and I do _not_ believe it,” Maglor said after a moment. “Yes, I saw it also. But desire never faded in my father, and he was not alone.”

Tindómion said, “Glorfindel believed the Valar told us that it was truth and we came to accept it. Our beliefs became as fact to us. Our own _minds_ emasculated us.”

“Is that thy fear?” his father asked. “That if – when – Gil-galad and thee become lovers that thy desire will fade? That thou wilt slowly become friends only and look on him without wanting him?” The smile was amused. “What of Glorfindel and Legolas? And perhaps thou shouldst ask my father, Maedhros and Fingon...or Fingolfin.”

“I need not ask Glorfindel, I can _see,_ and yet I have also seen the death of desire in so many. Perhaps I do fear it. I cannot imagine not _wanting_ him, _adar._ I would rather feel this way and never possess him, than have him and lose this.”

“The damned laws poisoned us.” Maglor turned away, sat down and lifted a lyre into his hands. “We will ride out in the morning. Let my father tell thee of a fire that never burns itself out.”

“I can see it in thee,” Tindómion said softly and watched the self-mocking lift of the brows which made Maglor's expression startlingly like Fëanor's. A string throbbed like a bird-call.

“I also... ”

Maglor laid the lyre aside, saying nothing,and his son walked to the bed and flung himself, long-limbed, onto it, leaning on one arm.  
“Gil wanted to possess me.”

“Yes, I did guess that.”

Tindómion laughed, but sobered quickly.  
“I want him, _I_ want to possess him, but if he wants me, why does he not show me?”

“He must force thee then? Prove his power by taking thee?”

“Who would possess my grandsire?”

“I think no-one has,” Maglor murmured after a moment wherein his color rose. “I think he could never conceive of it. Dost thou not...” His voice fractured and Tindómion knew what he was remembering. He had dreamed it with him, lived through it. He reached out and clasped his father's hand, drew him to sit down and knelt, locking his arms about the tenseness.

“Thou wert there..in Mordor for some time, _adar_ ”

“I do not know.”

“I felt it. I had to do things to restrain myself, keep away from Gil, I asked Glorfindel to scourge me, give me pain...”

“Maedhros asked me once,” Maglor said, tonelessly. “I did not understand. Then.”

“Thou wert pleasured, possessed.” At his father's silence, Tindómion cupped a hand against his cheek turned the closed face toward him.

“Dost thou feel ashamed of being taken, or that it was Sauron's son who took thee?”

“I do not know. I did not know whom he was.” Maglor gathered himself. “I was dying. Sauron did such things to me...and then to be given pleasure when I had at last accepted death...I was mad, Istelion. I wanted my father, and he...Gorthaurion reminded me of him, in the way he touched me.” A harsh breath exploded out of him and he closed his eyes. “I do not know...what art thou asking me? If thy beloved possesses thee it is not because thou art the weaker, it means that thou doth... _need._ ”

“I do not think thee weak.”

“No? I _was_ weak! ” Maglor shook his head. “Weak, and mad, needing, _hating._ ” His fingers clenched in his son's tunic. “I think I will always need and hate – and be mad!”

“No, _adar._ ” Tindómion held him, loving him, grieving for him. “Thou art not mad. And hate and need... is a part of us.”

~~~

~ They had lived in the cold hills for unnumbered years. Once they had been of the race of Númenor, but Arnor had fractured into the smaller realms of Cardolan, Arthedain and Rhudaur, and all had fallen with the years, to the long wars with Angmar, to plague and famine. The North Kingdom became an empty land, where crumbling ruins traced the history of the men whom had once dwelled there. There were few left of the Dúnedain, remnant of the mighty Sea-Kings, but they survived, and the line of the Kings had been preserved, to come down to he who now ruled in Minas Tirith, Elessar Telcontar.

The Men of Angmar were almost forgotten as the years rolled on like surf, washing away the histories which were preserved only among a few. Yet they endured in a land where shadows still clung, where winters were long and grim and the short summer came reluctantly. Withal, they were men and not orcs, for they hated the creatures who sometimes raided down from their holds when food became scarce.

As Sauron gathered his armies, many had made their way eastward, hoping for plunder, for the pickings were thin about Angmar. Thus the men had some respite, until the Orcs fleeing the disaster of Sauron's downfall, were forced west to a land they knew Men were loathe to come; forced west by Sauron's son and the Men of the North who had hounded them until even the bleak Grey Mountains were no shelter. Few of them even knew of Vanimórë, but their blood recognized Sauron's, and felt his terrifying thirst for revenge. As one soldier, in panic, might infect an army and cause a rout, so did the orcs succumb to a contagion of impending death. Crossing the rough land which lay between the Ered Mithrim and the north of Mirkwood, they found the wood-Elves come forth from the forests with death in their hands. The stragglers were pushed north, heels nipped by dread, coming at last to a place where the old dark was still thick.  
Carn Dûm.

The Men of Angmar learned with horror that there was movement again about that haunted place. For that it was haunted they had no doubt. Their legends told of a living ghost who had ruled there as a king, terrible in his sorcery. For all that their ancestors had served the Witch-King, Carn Dûm was avoided like a plague-pit, but in its day it had been mighty, and provided solid shelter for the orcs. As the birch-leaves yellowed and the days shortened, they began to raid for winter meat. Men found burned out homesteads, the gruesome remains of childrens bones in cook fires, but no men or women. It seemed the orcs had returned with them to the fortress.

They were a scattered folk, for the land was too poor to support villages. Some stayed to fight for their lives, others gathered what they could and headed south, a dreadful journey with winter at their backs. These were mainly men with wives and children who knew from their tales what Orcs would do to them before their bodies were devoured.

Most had not survived. Those that did owed their lives to their inner strength, their lives in a harsh land, and the fact that the wild country through which they traveled was rich in game even in the winter. And they were skilled hunters and trappers, learning by necessity from their childhood. Yet they died, some lost in the blizzards, others turning back. A few held on, knowing they dared not pause, for the cold brought the wolves down from the mountains, and their hunting howls were heard at night.

One day they came to a great lake, clear and icy, grey under a grey sky, but but did not remain there long. They mistrusted the tranquil silence. This too was a haunted place. Lorh, the oldest of the survivors muttered of the White Ghosts of the West, who sought to possess the bodies of Men.

“They move without sound,” he whispered, and looked at the round belly of Cell, wife of their young leader, Carreg. His eyes flickered nervously, seeking shadows beyond the fire. “They will come and take the babe when it be born, leave you with an armful of dead hemlock and ivy to croon over.”

Carreg, tall and ice-eyed, rose from the fire and stood over him.  
“Enough of this ! ” He hefted the axe in his hand. He, with two other men, had killed a troll with this axe, the last bitter winter when the Mountains of Angmar seemed to loom higher, staining the snow with blackness, shadows dense as soot. His stroke had cleaved into the throat, and he had hacked and hacked again until the last shudders told of death. Near the troll lay his father, ribs crushed like rotten wood. Carreg of the Axe, they called him after that day, the day he had become head of his hall at seventeen years old. It had been then that Cell had caught his eye as she served him hot mead. She was Lorh's daughter, and he knew now why she had always gone silent and hooded, hiding her bruised face. There was a viciousness in Lorh that Carreg found distasteful, and when Cell let fall her robes that night, black hair tumbled loose about her whiteness, Carreg had taken her down on the wolf-pelts. A few days later he had made her his wife.  
Not long after, Lorh sported a broken nose and blackened eye, and when Carreg returned to Cell something in her had softened, and they looked at one another as lovers do. Love was a rare commodity in a land where the women had to be as hard as the men to survive.

Lorh had said it was Carreg's duty to leave the hall, when news came of the Orcs. Cell had said she was with child, and they all knew the stories of orcs ripping unborn babes from the womb. Carreg's duty was to his people, to his wife and the child she had conceived, and she had said to him, “My father is a coward, but he is right. There is nothing for us here but death. I have dreamed of this for a long time. Our child will not be born here.”

He had listened to her as he had not to Lorh. The women of Angmar were Dreamers. Some had the Sight, and many times were proven to dream true.  
Their hold lay the furthest south, and so they loaded what they could on the shaggy little ponies and departed.

Only Carreg, Cell, Lorh and Carreg's cousin, tall Ness, were left.

As they entered the lands that Lorh said were haunted by the Soulless Ones, the air seemed warmer, the ground unfrozen. Carreg looked far into the west and saw that the country was green below snow-capped mountains. He knew the old tales, but they had seen nothing but birds and beasts. There was no sign of man save the ruins and they were ancient. And there was no returning to the north.

Ness hunted that day and brought back a deer. The camped near a stream that night and roasted the venison.  
Behind them lay a weary nightmare. There had not been time to grieve for those lost, and in their harsh lives death was common. Carreg had to look ahead, not backward, find somewhere to build shelter for Cell for when the child was born. He felt a lightening of his spirit which surprised him; winter was looking back only grudgingly over its shoulder, and the warmer weather would bring a bounty of game. He could cure hides, there was wood aplenty, and he had seen the distant white specks of sheep or goats on the rounded hills they had passed to the south.

“What do you feel?” he asked his wife, tucking his ragged cloak about her.

“The land remembers,” she murmured. Across the fire Lorh nervously picked his teeth with a sliver of bone. “It is powerful. But I sense no danger.”

He knelt behind her and rubbed her back, earning a snort of derision from Lorh. Many women would never have considered such a forced march while pregnant, but the people dark Angmar bred were iron-hard, and she had been adamant they must go. He had been grateful for her staunchness, uncomplaining in the face of bitter cold and near starvation. He felt he had learned more about her in the last months than in the brief summer of their marriage, and desired to know more.

“We could live here,” he said. “It is a fair land. Rich. Clean.”

There was a goodness to the place. He felt as if he had stepped out of a lifelong shadow he had not even been aware of. Beyond that, he could not yet look. If they came upon native people there might be violence, or perhaps they would be accepted if they proved their worth. If there were none, they would die here, but a natural death in this lush land was a better one than they would have earned if captured by orcs.

“You are crazed,” growled Lorh, throwing his tooth-pick into the fire. “Do you not feel the eyes on us? You have doomed us bringing us so far. The world ends at the Great Sea ! If we settle here the white ghosts will take us !”

“You could have stayed for the wolves and orcs, Lorh !” Carreg came to his feet. The distant howls had ever been behind them, harrying them southward. They had heard nothing for five nights now, perhaps the beasts had returned to the north with the milder weather, Ness suggested, as he sharpened his long dagger. The firelight flashed from the metal. Ness too, had been an asset, Carreg thought. Not a man for words, he did what needed to be done unquestioningly, and his stamina seemed boundless.

“Or they have better sense than we do, coming into this land,” snarled Lorh, hunching his shoulders.

“You may leave at any time.” Carreg met the black eyes, which slid from his, and Ness rose to his feet.

“I will keep watch, cousin.”

“For half the night. Then rouse me.”  
Ness nodded.

But Carreg could not sleep.

~~~

Far away, Vanimórë sat before a small campfire in fog that froze grass stem and brittle weed, and glazed the gnarled small stand of trees where they had camped. His head came up and he looked into the blind white wall. Elgalad turned, listening, but save for the quiet crackle of the flames, no noise disturbed the night.  
Vanimórë rose. He seemed to be sensing something with his whole body, and Elgalad's hand stretched reflexively toward his weapons.

“There is nothing, my dear.”

“B-but something is wrong?”

Vanimórë turned, his eyes were inward-gazing, thoughtful, but he shook his head.  
“Not wrong, no. Indeed, I think I begin to see...” ~

~~~


	17. ~ 'I Dreamed Him ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people have wondered how Glorfindel and Legolas got together in my AU.  
> I always intended there to be great similarities between Legolas and Elgalad. They are kin, although in this AU, Legolas is older than Elgalad and was his mentor in Mirkwood for a long time.
> 
> In the Dark Prince AU, Glorfindel and Vanimórë are equals, and their paths crossed long ago. Perhaps it is not surprising, if one considers their long lives, and how their experiences molded them, that they would need characters like Legolas and Elgalad to love them.
> 
> The following couple of chapters will involve some flashbacks.

~ Every Elf who had come from Aman wanted audience with their lords, to discuss their journey, what waited for them in New Cuiviénen, their positions within the houses, where they would dwell. Many simply wanted to speak to those they had once followed, fought and died for. The streets and houses of Mithlond seemed to be filled of Noldor and they strode the paved ways like lords. Fortunately, there were many there who regretted the Kinslayings, and there were no serious altercations. The newness, the sense of hope and renewal were potent and they birthed enthusiasm, not bitterness. It would only be a matter of time before old grievances were revived, but it was not an immediate concern. Now they savored reunion.  
  
It was very late in the night when Fëanor found Fingolfin in one of the inn's lower chambers, surrounded by those who had been part of his High Council in Barad Eithel. The brother's eyes met across the room, and Fingolfin acknowledged him with a nod, finished his conversation and said, “My lords, excuse me. We go to speak with my grandson. Brother, I am at thy disposal.”  
  
 _Art thou?_ Fëanor glinted at him.  
  
There were murmurs of assent, but the bright eyes which gazed at Fëanor were wary, some openly hostile. Inclining his head, wholly unperturbed, he waited for Fingolfin to cross to him, allowing that image to embed itself in their minds: their lord coming to him – but in his own time. Fingolfin had never jumped to obey his bidding, and Fëanor would have had it no other way. He desired obedience, but not servility. They fell into step as they walked up the hall, gathering stares as a sewn furrow gathers birds in its wake.  
  
“They always loved thee.”  
  
“I always loved my people, Fëanor. They know it. Thou art not so easy to love.”  
  
“Truly? ” The word plunged deep into amusement, and then he stopped, said quietly: “My people also followed me here, Nolofinwë.”  
  
“Yes, they did,” Fingolfin agreed. “Do not let them regret it this time.”  
  
“Wouldst thou remind me of my duty?” Fëanor demanded, softly dangerous.  
  
“If I have to. If I am thy closest adviser, as thou sayest, it is _my_ duty to do so. I have ruled through both peace and war, brother.” He held those eyes that he loved, the light behind them so close to burning up in anger and remembered, ancient grief. He had felt Fëanor die before they reached Mithrim, and the light vanish from his world. He felt compelled to touch, to confirm the reality of his brother – and ruthlessly quashed the desire.  
  
“This is why I want thee close to me.” The smile taunted and challenged, but held a warmth that was deeper, sweeter and more truly perilous to Fingolfin's heart. “Our departure will be delayed for a little,” Fëanor went on, as they strode down one hallway, passing Elves who stepped aside with bows then stared after them as if trying to accept a friendship between two who had never loved one another – or so they believed. Yet there was an affinity in their movements. There had been since Tirion, for those with eyes to see it.  
  
“There much we may do here,” Fingolfin replied. “We have many plans to make. And, as before, we will be journeying to a strange land. This time, however, there is less haste. And no enemy.”  
  
“Yet I will be glad to begin our lives. Truly begin them.” Fëanor gleamed with an enthusiasm untainted now by madness or grief. “What did Aredhel say?”  
  
“She will be circumspect.”  
  
“Why dost thou look at me like that?” They halted outside Gil-galad's door. “I have no desire to hurt thy daughter. Therefore I do not wish to know when or where her son arrives. It is better so.”  
  
“For me also,” Fingolfin said hardly, before his voice dropped to an almost inaudible murmur. “But she has said she wishes to remain with him in Imladris. And I will not refuse her.”  
  
His brother gave him a long look. “In that case, I hope that there are those in Imladris who can handle her.”  
  
“The sons of Elrond. Glorfindel said that they can be trusted to watch over her. Erestor likewise vouches for them.” He could not conceal the bite in his voice.  
  
Fëanor smiled his pleasure at the jealousy.  
“Unfortunately, he too has duties, and will be about them on the morrow.” He ran his fingers up the slender flank, under the fall of raven hair. “My beauty,” he whispered.  
  
Fingolfin knocked on the door, and quickly opened it.  
  
His grandson had been sitting behind a table spread with sheaves of paper, but there were wine-goblets there, a cloak laid across the settle, and an man standing very close to Gil-galad, as if he had been leaning against him and talking, or something more. Fingolfin had never known Vórimóro, but liked what he had seen of him. There was a gaiety and warmth in his face which was instantly appealing, and it was in direct opposition to Tindómion's stern, brooding beauty.  
  
Gil-galad came forward.  
“Grandsire, my Lord.”  
  
“I will leave thee now, Gil,” Vórimóro bowed elegantly. His backward look lingered, and Fingolfin shared a glance with his brother. Gil-galad saw it, tilted up his chin.  
  
“We did not wish to disturb thee,” Fëanor said smoothly, with lifted brows.  
  
“Thou art not. Please, be seated.”  
  
“Why is my grandson not here?”  
  
Gil-galad met the brilliant eyes levelly, “He was, sire.”  
  
Fëanor appeared amused.  
  
“I am sorry to my heart for what happened this day, Gil,” Fingolfin said gently, “But I loved thee the moment that I saw thee, as did thy father.”  
  
“I do not need her love. Truly, there is nothing new or surprising in what she said.”  
  
“I doubt that she knows love.” Fëanor seemed to glow with an uprush of anger. “But let her plan and plot and think herself untouchable for a time. Let us speak of Istelion who does love thee, and wants thee so much that he must harden whenever he looks at thee.”  
  
“Istelion,” Gil-galad pronounced, “Is like to drive me mad, and I will not have his pity, nor have him use it as an excuse to be close to me.”  
  
“He must have gone almost mad. What a world the two of thee lived in.” Fingolfin looked at his brother who stated, “I would not have permitted it.”  
  
“And I should not have permitted it,” Gil-galad agreed. “But I was a king. Many believed, even before we knew it was true, that our kind of love brought punishment. I could not encourage them to doom themselves. A king cannot be above the laws, even if those laws are wrong.”  
  
Fëanor made a gesture of assent, but there was still a sense of prickling danger about him. “And thyself? ”  
  
“I willingly doomed myself. But I believe it would not have been something I could hide. And yes, that would have been necessary, for my people.  
  
After a moment, Fëanor nodded grudgingly. “And now?” he asked, curious, smiling.  
  
Gil-galad looked at the cloak his guest and friend had left behind.  
“Play him,” he said. “As he played me. Until one or the other of us breaks.”  
  
Fëanor looked into Fingolfin's eyes.  
“There _is_ a thrill to these games.” And his eyes laughed unrepentantly.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Fëanor opened the door. He was dressed to ride out, his energy like fire running before him. It was after dawn and he expected his second son to be awake; rest came rare and reluctantly to Maglor. Many things came hard to him, and although Fëanor knew that he himself was the cause of some of this unease, Maglor had been lost and alone for too long to be permitted to hold himself aloof now.  
  
The bed-chamber was silent. Fëanor stopped, watching the two sleepers. Maglor had drawn Tindómion back against him. The black hair and the bronze mingled, their faces on the pillow were identical,peaceful, silver eyes glazed with dream.  
  
Maglor would never have lain so serenely in his arms, Fëanor thought. He crossed soundlessly to the bed, watched them for a moment, then kissed them, feeling the pulse of need which parted their lips. He smiled. A long time ago he had opened the soul of his second son to desire. Maglor had never said anything to him of a lover in Middle-earth, but in the long years he had found comfort; his responses were too sensual for one who had never known shared pleasure.  
  
Maglor blinked and Fëanor drew back, watching the wariness fit itself over the love like a gauntlet. Tindómion stirred and moved.  
  
“I am riding out,” Fëanor announced. “Join me.”  
His grandson's smile was less restrained than Maglor's.  
  
It was more than a pleasurable ride, Tindómion knew, it was another show of unity. Glorfindel and Legolas were there, Fingolfin, his sons, Gil-galad, who drew his mount from alongside Vórimóro's and angled across to Tindómion and Maglor to greet them. He was all polished courtesy, as if nothing had happened the previous evening, but so they had ever appeared in public. Tindómion, forced back into that old habit, was hard put to summon politesse and was grateful when Legolas rode to his side. He wondered, as he looked at the prince, how it would be to live and love so intensely that the sun-gloss of it sat unfading on the flesh. Glorfindel had told him long ago that lovers spoke their own language of the body, had asked him if he could have hidden his, were he and Gil-galad lovers.  
  
 _No. Does my body not declaim my love and need as loud as a hunting horn?_  
  
He concealed his combative glare at Vórimóro under downcast lashes, listened as his father spoke to Legolas of the music of the Greenwood. That too was politic, he thought, as he looked ahead to where his grandfather and Fingolfin cantered each side of Glorfindel. Maglor was trusted. Glorfindel knew where the Fëanorion's desire lay, and would not mislike it were a friendship to form between he and Legolas. There was also some calculation: Fëanor would have to go through his second son to approach the prince. Glorfindel was using Maglor as a shield, Tindómion thought, with a quick stir of anger, and yet his father was probably aware and did not object. After all, he knew Fëanor.  
  
In a flash of gem and rippling hair, Celegorm, Curufin, Amrod and Amras surged past them. Aredhel was with them, outracing them, color whipped into alabaster cheeks, strikingly beautiful. She cast a look over her shoulder as if goading the others to race her, but her expression was severe, not playful, and her eyes were otherwhere. Caranthir fell in on Tindómion's left with the flash of a smile.  
  
“They do not like me, I think,” Tindómion observed with more curiosity than rancor, shaking himself from his thoughts.  
  
“They are jealous.” At the surprise his words evoked, Caranthir laughed. “Hast thou not yet seen how close our blood binds us, for good or ill. Through all the arguments, the hot words, the anger, we love one another. Thou hast claimed a father's love. Our brother's love. We are all jealous creatures.” His eyes glanced ahead to where Gil-galad was riding beside Fingon, Vórimóro close by. “It will take a little while, but our father accepts thee.”  
  
Tindómion laughed aloud, bringing Gil-galad's head about, and their eyes kissed as sword-blades kiss.  
“Yes, uncle,” he said. “I understand.”  
  
The chime of harness turned his eyes aside to see another rider join them, his tunic and breeches silver grey, star-white jewels bound in the fall of ebony hair like droplets of water. Tindómion acknowledged the warrior with an inclination of his head.  
  
“Lord Ecthelion.”  
  
He wondered that Glorfindel should invite his once-lover, but the gold head turned, and a gloved hand rose in greeting. Ecthelion responded with a smile which held some rue, a great deal of thought, but no anger.  
  
“Prince Tindómion,” Ecthelion replied, with some amusement, as if teasing his formality, before greeting the others.  
  
“Call me Istelion.”  
  
“My thanks, I will.” Ecthelion's eyes were the color of a cool northern lake. They moved past him to Legolas and Tindómion saw that while there was no malice in them, there was jealousy, the more obvious since Ecthelion was clearly determined to conceal it. Glorfindel had said that Fëanor had broken their fledgling love – if love there had been – but still they had been lovers, and close as brothers. This situation was surely difficult. From the faint mantling of color on Legolas' cheeks it was not comfortable for him either, but both of them knew the dance of social interaction well enough to perform the steps.  
  
“We were speaking of the music of Prince Legolas' home.” Maglor, who obviously sensed the atmosphere, provided a foil. “I would like to play with thee again, Ecthelion. It has been a long time.”  
  
“Yes, it has. Of course. Perhaps thy son will join us?”  
  
Tindómion nodded. “I would like to. Glorfindel told me much of thy skill.”  
  
“Perhaps this evening?” Maglor suggested and Ecthelion nodded, showing no inclination to ride ahead.  
 _Do not worry about my presence, Istelion._ The thought came into Tindómion's mind. _I too know Fëanor, and Glorfindel and I were close for a long time. I do not deny jealousy, but I would never drive a wedge between he and Legolas._  
  
 _Then I think, Lord Ecthelion, thou art more temperate than I would be,_ Tindómion replied and watched the quirk of the other's lips.  
  
 _I have had – and will have – compensations. And thou art truly Fëanorion I think. There are none less temperate._ The flash of the look Ecthelion sent Fëanor was less than friendly. He said, as if he had rehearsed it: “Prince Legolas. Glorfindel told me to ask thee how the two of thee met.”  
  
“You do not know?” The question startled the prince, who gauged the expression, the tone of the voice.  
  
“Am I intrusive?”  
  
“No.” Legolas drew out the word. “But the memory is a difficult one.”  
Ecthelion raised his brows, Tindómion looked around, his face somber.  
“You know of the Úlairi?” the prince asked.  
“I know now.”  
  
“After the Last Alliance, they vanished,” Legolas continued, gazing straight ahead. “At least there was no report of them...for a long time.”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Thranduil, although preferring to hold himself and his realm aloof from the other Elven lands, exchanged news with Elrond at whiles, sending messengers over the High Pass. He had met Elrond during the siege of Barad-dûr, and come to like him enough to forget his Finwion blood. Their acquaintanceship proceeded after the manner of two lords sundered by distance, and their correspondence was amicable enough but neither visited the other's home.  
In this way, did Elrond learn of the birth of Legolas, and in the spring of his fiftieth year, Legolas himself received an invitation from Imladris, a courteous gesture for his passing from youth into adulthood. Legolas had, of course, celebrated his begetting day in the forest realm and, still proud and exhilarated, was afire to make the journey to the legendary valley ruled by the son of Eärendil.  
  
Thranduil was less enthusiastic. The highest blood of Doriath ran in Elrond's line, and he was held in high esteem by the Elves, but the king of the wood-Elves harbored a hatred for the Noldor which was only a little ameliorated by his respect for Elrond. Imladris had been founded as a Noldorin refuge, and was the home to the son of a kinslayer. While Thranduil was not one to hold a son accountable for the actions of his father, he did not want Legolas to meet a Fëanorion.  
  
And then there was Glorfindel. The fabled Elf-lord had looked at him under the ember-black skies of Mordor with the interest of a male who finds beauty in other males. That had not in itself disturbed Thranduil. He knew of the prohibition against such appetites, but the Laws had not been given to the Elves who remained in Middle-earth, and he had no intention of trying to force them on his people. Oropher had never done so, and Thranduil did not truly believe the Valar would punish love. The thought ran into deep waters and he did not like where his speculations lead him. If his policy made him culpable of abetting some sort of sin, he would accept it, although the idea seemed ludicrous.  
  
No, it had not been that look of desire which had shaken him, but the recognition (for he could call it nothing else) in the warrior's eyes. It had been so intense, as if Glorfindel believed he saw some-one long lost to him, then realized he was mistaken.  
  
Legolas looked a little like his father at that age, although his hair was paler and he had his mother's sweet mouth. And Legolas had never been seen to court any maid. Thranduil did not want Glorfindel, reborn, magnificent and _Golodh_ to be attracted to his son. Legolas would be overwhelmed; it would be an utter mismatch. And what if it were true that the Valar punished such acts?  
  
He did not say this of course, instead, he reminded Legolas of his recklessness the previous year. The Greenwood was not so dark then, but the Silvan Elves said that there had always been great spiders there, as there had been in Nan Dungortheb before Ungoliant came and mated with them. They were a foul note in the Great Music, and the wood-Elves of the forest had fought them long before the _Golodhrim_ returned to Middle-earth. It had long been tradition for young Elves to kill one, a rite of passage that declared them both adult and warrior. Oropher had not overturned the ancient ritual, but had ruled that the youths be accompanied by proven warriors. Some of the Silvan's still held to the old ways, however, and went out alone; it was deemed a greater glory. Hence Legolas' feckless, solitary venture to a spider colony.  
  
Some-one had intervened, or Thranduil would have been reft of his son that day. The stranger had administered a potion unfamiliar to either the King or his healers to combat the the spider venom. Legolas had spoken in delirium of violet eyes and black hair, but Thranduil could make nothing of that, and ignored it as one of the effects of the poison. No-one came forward to claim the King's gratitude, and though Thranduil never forgot, the mystery remained unsolved.  
  
Once recovered and on his feet, Legolas endured anger which, had he been a tree, might have stripped the leaves from him. A long, hard embrace followed this, and he was strictly forbidden to go further than the archery grounds until his begetting day.  
  
“I cannot trust you,” Thranduil said frankly, “What if you decided to explore the lands around Imladris alone and found danger? The North Kingdom has fractured. Trolls live beyond Imladris, orcs stir in the mountains, and there are bands of wild men who are little better than orcs.”  
  
Legolas had flushed with indignation. “But father, I will be with you.”  
  
“I will not go to Imladris, much as I respect Lord Elrond,” Thranduil told him. “He knows this. He wrote to me saying that if I permitted you to go, he would send an escort to meet you, and that his sons will be happy to be your companions in Imladris.”  
  
“That is very courteous, father, and it would be a discourtesy to refuse, would it not?” Legolas' eyes were so guileless that Thranduil was forced, unwillingly, to smile.  
  
 _It would please me greatly to have your son as a guest for the summer,_ Elrond had written. _I could wish there were greater ties between our kingdoms, for it is in my mind that the darkness of the enemy is not passed forever and all people of goodwill should forge closer friendships. I will guard and care for Legolas as my own child, and all in Imladris will look to his comfort._  
  
“I will go with him.”  
Níniwen smiled at them, and Legolas looked hopefully at his father.  
  
“You have said many times that you trust Lord Elrond,” she said. “And I would like to show our son to the haughty lords of Imladris.”  
  
Their journey had initially been one of laughter and anticipation. Thranduil had sent for two of his most most experienced captains, and ordered them to choose their best warriors as escort. But the queen and the prince, side by side, smiled at the unfolding beauty of the lands that blossomed under the kiss of spring. Neither of them had been outside the forest, and the great mountain range in the west, still hooded with snow, caught their breaths with its stark grandeur.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Legolas fell silent, and as his eyes came back from the past, he saw that Glorfindel had turned back and was close to him. Fëanor and Fingolfin were side by side and listening gravely. Ecthelion was silent. So this was indeed to be a public telling of the tale.  
  
Glorfindel said, “I dreamed him.”  
  
Ecthelion stared. Fëanor seemed absorbed.  
  
“The years were long, and my soul was filled with heaviness, for I forebode there was more war to come, more death and heartache. So many Elves passed west in the Times of Flight, it was like watching a tide retreating across the sand, flames going out in a cold hearth. Thranduil was correct. I did look at him thinking I knew him, thinking I had found some-one. And then I knew it was not him, but that he looked like one I was waiting for.”  
  
“As Vanimórë was waiting for Elgalad,” Fëanor mused.  
  
“My rebirth was a punishment,” Glorfindel said with an edge. “Námo told me I was saved from the Void because my death allowed Eärendil to live, and I could again serve the house I had given my life for. But he did not tell me all. Finrod pleaded for me. But beyond that, I was chosen. Marked. ” He looked hard at Fëanor, but with something akin to speculation in his eyes. “Long ago. And it is no gift in truth. It is a duty. I was chosen because I had lived, because I knew the best and worse of what any Elf can do, can be. I understand my own kin as the Valar never did. And that did not make me pure and stainless.” He raised a gloved hand, telling off the points with his fingers. “There are similarities between Vanimórë and myself. We both disowned our father's, although he was forced to serve his. We both lost siblings we loved – and, in diverse ways, we lost our innocence.”  
  
He had indeed been innocent when Fëanor smashed into his life. His burgeoning love for Ecthelion had been that of a youth, playful and unpracticed, their kisses shy, for they would not go further. His passion had not been awoken. He had wondered whom had told his father, and had long believed it to be Fëanor. But it had been Finarfin himself who had seen more than friendship between his second son and Ecthelion. Their confrontation had sparked a fire of defiance in Glorfindel that had hitherto been banked. And Fëanor had fanned that fire into an inferno.  
  
“And,” Ecthelion said matter-of-factly: “Neither of thee had ever truly loved.”  
  
Glorfindel opened his hand in a strange gesture, as if releasing a thought, an admission into the soft air.  
“Even that was destined, my friend, but it is true, both Vanimórë and I needed innocence, needed a pure and unconditional love.”  
  
“Elrond invited Legolas to Imladris for the summer of his fiftieth year,” he went on after a pause. “I was restless in those months.” He glanced at Tindómion, who nodded affirmation. “I said we should meet our guests beyond the High Pass. The Hithaeglir were never safe, but after Sauron's defeat they were quieter, and it was the quickest way from the Greenwood to Imladris. We heard rumors that orcs were stirring afar, but little more. Yet I was troubled. Now we know why, for Sauron was once more a potent will in the world. I think many of us suspected it.” He hesitated, and said directly to Legolas, as if they were alone: “Thou needst not tell it.”  
  
“I wish to tell it,” Legolas responded. “I wish it to be told.” ~  
  


~~~


	18. ~ An Arrow Into The Gold ~

  
~ Out of their view, the sea breathed against the margins of the land. Legolas remembered the scent of it, the mournful wail of the gulls at Pelargir upon Anduin. He had rejected the hook that tried to seize his soul, and he understood now that the sea-longing was but bait laid by the Valar, drawing the Elves of Middle-earth to the pale purity of Valinor. Galadriel had tried to warn him.  
 _Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree,  
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the sea !_ *

But when it came to it, the Valars' beguilement was nothing when set against love.

He knew why Glorfindel had chosen this audience. He was perfectly aware of the speculation surrounding him: why would Glorfindel of the House of Finarfin choose a Silvan Elf as his lover? The Elves of Mirkwood were often considered rustic and wild, but only by those who did not know them. The heritage of the Silvans was a rich one, evolving through a folk of wood and stream-side who had never known Valinor, only the untamed beauty of Ennorath. There were freshwater pearls in the Forest River and the Celduin, and the walls of Thranduil's halls flashed and flickered with white quartz. Amber had been found when the hill was delved. Oropher and those who followed him had brought knowledge out of Doriath which had further enriched the kingdom. The Silvans took fallen wood and polished it to bring out the patterns of the grain, and half-wild goats grazed on the forest's eastern margin, providing silken wool for clothes and tapestries.

None of that was truly what mattered, here, and it had never concerned Legolas, who loved his people and knew their worth. No, this was something else. Glorfindel wanted them all to know, Fëanor especially, that Legolas was chosen, just as Elgalad had been.

“There was no sign, crossing the High Pass, or as it fell to the lands beyond.” Legolas eased his voice to calm. Despite all that had happened, there was always and ever would be pain in memory. “There was only the narrow track behind us, with a falling chasm on one side and the mountain on the other. We were resting just before dawn, and the stars were bright. The moon made it seem like day.”

~~~

The alarm jerked him awake. Warriors were calling, the horses stamping and snorting. He rolled from his blanket, reaching for his mother who lay close. She was already awake and coming to her feet.

“ _Yrch,_ ” hissed one of the guards. The night was so still that the sound of their approach was clear, heavy on the stony ground.“There has been no report of them...”

“They are making great speed.”

“It is nigh to dawn. They will be returning to their holes before sunrise.”

“They are not running, that is a stampede,” some-one exclaimed. And then grimly, “There are many.”

“We have many arrows,” Captain Cedor said coolly.

The hair on the back of the Legolas' neck prickled and rose as a hound's scenting danger, as it had when he had first seen Orcs that warm summer day. Even through the veil of venom, a memory far older than he was had surfaced from an ancient well in his soul. He understood instinctively that there could be no sympathy, no understanding between Elves and Orcs.

Were they making the greatest speed back to their underground lairs before Anor rose? Orcs shunned the sunlight, although his father had said that they had fought fiercely in Mordor. The proximity of their master had given them strength, Thranduil surmised, or the frequent eruptions of Orodruin that obscured the sun's rays aided them. The Orcs of Mordor were stronger and taller than the mountain-breed, and under Sauron's will they would fight in daylight if they had to, but their smaller kin customarily sought shelter. It was one of the reasons they sometimes ventured into the darker regions of the Greenwood for spider venom.

Legolas swallowed convulsively, but he was already buckling his harness so his quiver rode at his back, stringing his bow as were the warriors, their movements calm and assured.  
 _Never go into the unknown, unarmed._  
It was almost a law of the forest, one of the first things a young Elf learned. Legolas had not yet joined the ranks of the army, prince or no, he was undergoing the same training as all youths, but he knew what to do. His heart pounded frantically as he glanced around the tumbled land. They had to hide his mother at the least, or send her back... He looked up. The narrow track they had ascended doglegged perilously, hugging the crevasse, even their neat-footed horses would be cautious making that climb. Would there be enough time if they held the oncoming Orcs?  
And then his mouth went dry as dust. Ithil caught on metal. Movement above.

“Cedor! Orcs in the pass.”

The captain spun round and swore, then rapped out commands to re-position his men.  
“Prince, my lady, you must leave, now.” He gestured with a jerk of his head. “We will find you when we have dealt with them.”

Legolas shook his head, heart like a war-drum in his ears. “ _No,_ I am one more bow!”

“And you are my king's son, and I vowed to protect you and the Queen.”

“The Elves of the Greenwood do not desert their kin.” It was his mother, loose hair a drift of thistledown about her head. “Give me a bow, Cedor.”

“Mother, ” Legolas protested, and she said with remarkable calm: “I have never brought down anything but a running hart, but I assure you I can kill an Orc, my dear.”

“Lady, I will not allow this,” Cedor said with flat authority.

“You cannot spare the warriors to remove me, Captain.”

“Legolas will guide you.” The captain's face was stern. “You know what they do if they capture us alive.” He drove it home with the brutality of desperation, wanting to goad her into fleeing. “Both you and your son. They will hold you down and rape you. And then they will feast on you.”

Legolas saw his mother flinch. Her eyes flashed to him. His gorge rose. He knew the tales. Every Elf of the Great Wood knew.

From above them howls rose. They had been seen. Panic sharpened his voice. “ _Nana,_ go.” The words ached and cracked. His breastbone felt as if it were splitting with the weight of fear for her, horrified by the images Cedor's words evoked.  
 _He is warning us they may fall, that there may be too many..._

How many? He could not judge, but their footfalls were thunderous in the quiet of the night. Thranduil had sent a score of warriors as guard, but it sounded as if there were many more Orcs – and they too used bows. He felt his mother's hand seize his wrist, then she was running, pulling him, and he knew that she was thinking of him as he was of her. The thrill of her fear jumped to him like a spark, but part of him wanted to turn back and fight even as he caught up with her, outpaced her. Her fingers were still gripping his sleeve and now it was he who lead, searching for somewhere to hide her, begging Anor to rise and sap the Orcs of their strength. This stark land of rock and heather was alien to him, and he could see nowhere which provided sanctuary unless they scaled the great flank of the mountain. It was almost sheer, but that presented no obstacle to an Elf. His mother could escape the Orc bows if he remained to guard her. And he would.

_Lord Elrond could not have known of this. His messenger came through safe. So many of them...Are the foul things at war with one another?_

Behind them, arrows began to thrum through the air. He heard the unmistakable _thwack_ as they struck, a sound that he hazily remembered from a fog of horror and pain. The Orcs howled with rage, and the clear war-cry of the Greenwood Elves went up in challenge.

Legolas prayed to Tauron of the forests, mighty hunter of fell creatures from the deeps of time, whose white horse struck fire from its hooves as it ran. It was said he had ridden these mountains long ago, and at the sound of his horn all evil things had cowered and hid.

Coldness fell on him like the plunge of a waterfall, breath-stopping, shocking. The bright night was smothered as something came, a presence that thrust aside light, and left Legolas suspended for a moment in dizzying nothingness. There was a wrench on his arm, then his mother screamed as her grip was torn violently away. Legolas spun back, seeing a horse and rider molded from shadow. They loured over him, a promise of death. Legolas had never felt such cold, impersonal _hate._ It unbalanced him, his blood ran chill as the Forest River in winter.

The horse plunged, its scream vicious. The rider's cloak swirled like fog, and a hiss issued from unseen lips, forming words that clawed at his mind as if seeking a way in to madden him.

Amidst the ripples of cloth, he saw the tumbled brightness of his mother's hair, the wide gloss of her terrified eyes, saw the great, hand, a stain against her pallor, close about her throat. He heard her cry brutally choked off.

“ _No!_ ”

He was too close to use his bow. He did not know he had drawn his knife, but he felt it strike something, and the hiss scaled upward into a shriek so _wrong_ it was poison to his ears. An iron pain flamed up his hand from the knife-hilt and he cried out.  
The horse rose on its hind legs and Legolas was pinned by the glare of the rider's eyes, which seemed to look at him from very far away – and somehow he knew they did, that this being was outside the natural laws of the world, and that he could not kill it. The long shape of a sword etched itself above him, poised to come down.

When, much later, he thought back, he believed his mind had heard the approaching hoofbeats, but all his focus was upon his mother, and his rage, the pain, the presence of evil.

The horn punched into his consciousness like a slap on the face: a bold clarion that echoed from the mountains, and a vision burst out of the night like a shooting star.

The stallion was moon-colored. Sparks flashed under its hooves as it whipped past him and there was the bell-tone of colliding metal as blade crashed against blade. The horse came about in one fluid movement, and Legolas saw a radiant face, bright hair, a sword that burned like a white torch.

_Tauron,_

The rider spoke, his voice clear and powerful, but Legolas could not understand the words. It seemed the black rider could, or would not face the sun-fire of his challenger, for his mount gave back, and back again, and then whirled on its haunches. The flying hooves passed so close to Legolas' face that he felt the swipe of cold air, and the shining warrior spat words like burning jewels, his face illuminated by wrath. Even through the moil of emotions, the young prince thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, so frightening, yet it was a far different fear to that instilled by the Orcs, or the thing that now screeched and galloped away, tossing something pale from the folds of its cloak like a contemptuous afterthought.

Legolas heard the clattering scrape of rock and a wild shriek, saw another mounted warrior bar the black rider's path, heard a bite of the lovely, strange language. Then he was on his knees beside his mother, who lay like a broken wind-flower, the stem of her neck dark with violent marks.

“ _Nana..._ ” He touched her cheek to gently turn her face, and her head lolled to one side. Her eyes were wide and sightless.

“ _ **Nana!**_ ”

He felt something brush him, smelled a rich fragrance that seemed to cling to the golden warrior's hair. Legolas turned his head, seeing the hard beauty of the profile, the upward wing of brow and straight nose, the lush curl of the mouth.

“L-lord...?” His breath was fracturing, chasms were opening before him. “Help her...”

The luminous blue eyes turned to him. One hand, encased in a delicate gauntlet of silver-steel reached out to the woman's dead face, the gesture like a warrior's benediction on the battlefield.

“I am sorry,” he said in Sindarin, and touched Legolas' hand. The poisonous chill subsided.

Legolas shook his head, tears blurring the gold, the silver, the white, and screamed, “ **No.** ”

~~~

“Will she return?”

Legolas swam up through his memories. Aredhel had ridden back and was looking at him. He had thought her a proud black-and-white jewel of a woman, imposing, haughty, but the expression in her eyes was gentle, oddly sad.  
“Thou hast seen her?” she asked.

“Yes, lady.” But he would not elaborate. His reunion with his mother in Valinor had been poignant, hopeful and very private. Now the way was open for those Elves who wished to come back to the uncertainty and splendor of Middle-earth, and Níniwen would return, as would many others. The Noldor had only been the first.

Glorfindel saw Fëanor's somber expression, and though of Miriel, whom her son had never seen. He had not even broached the subject, and Glorfindel knew why, although he would never speak of it, never hint of it. Somewhere, buried so deep that Fëanor did not even realize it's existence, lay a burden of guilt. He thought that he had killed Miriel, and the tragedy was that, in essence, he had. There was something important – vital – in that fact, which Glorfindel should realize, but as yet did not.  
 _We are still learning..._

Aredhel drew her horse close to Legolas and reached out. She said nothing, but her long fingers rested on his wrist for a moment, then she turned and met Glorfindel's eyes, a mother whom had also been separated from the son she had loved.  
Still loved.  
He sighed inwardly, knowing he would persuade Elrond and his sons to accept Maeglin, and he also knew that he would force their agreement if he had to. The momentum of this destiny was being driven by something more powerful than the Valar. There was no choice in the matter, not for any of them. He nodded and Aredhel's eyes widened, glowed. Still silent, she wheeled quickly away, rebellious and proud, but a woman who loved, and now her body radiated not tension, but anticipation.

“One of the Úlairi,” Gil-galad said as if to himself.

“Sauron was stirring again,” Glorfindel said. “And he did not forget Imladris or the Three Rings, He sent the Nine throughout the north, hunting.”

“But then? That time? That was no coincidence, surely?”

“No it was not. There was an Orc-hold beneath the High Pass. He went there, the one called Mûrazôr, and lead them out. He was to try and kill Legolas.”

“ _Why?_ ” Gil-galad demanded. “Because Legolas was chosen for thee? But how could Sauron know that?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “He did not _know_ it, but he sensed something. We are all a note in the Great Music and he was powerful, Sauron, he heard fragmented chords of it. He guessed that I was something which should be destroyed, and if not that...hurt. He wanted to kill Elgalad also, which was why Vanimórë brought him to Mirkwood, to Legolas. Threads weaving through threads, dost thou see?”

“You said I was born for you, I never knew clearly what you meant,” Legolas murmured. “And Elgalad, chosen for Vanimórë, came to me, chosen for you.”

“Yes,” Glorfindel agreed. “Interwoven threads. Sauron saw _thee_ through his connection with his son's mind. He could not see Imladris, not while Elrond wore Vilya, but Vanimórë was always open to him – and _he_ had seen thee, and also been with me, long before; seven years I knew him, through the siege of Barad-dûr. Threads...chords of music.”  
He felt Maglor's gaze fast on him, knew, without looking, that he was puzzled, troubled. The very naming of Vanimórë always provoked an war of emotions in the Fëanorion, but there was more here. Something nagged at Glorfindel, but he set it aside for now. He was not comfortable sifting through the feelings which seethed inside each soul, and would not do so unless there was no other way. Sensing them so clearly, so intensely, was enough.

“Sauron heard broken chords.”  
He was feeling his own way, for much was still strange to him.  
“He could make little of them but he knew I dwelt in Imladris, I had faced Mûrazôr before. He could feel that the Three Elven Rings were being wielded, and wanted to discover who held them. He saw Legolas and myself through Vanimórë's mind and memories, so he sent the Lord of the Nine into the north, to the Orc-hold, to wait, for years if necessary. No doubt every messenger which passed between Imladris and the Greenwood was watched. The only reason they were not waylaid was because the Orcs were restrained by a will stronger than their own. ”

“What did Sauron hope to achieve?” Maglor asked.

“He saw that Legolas would be important to me, as Elgalad to Vanimórë. He did not know the full truth of it, but sensed enough to wish to kill both, take away something we would care for. Anyhow, he believed the Three Rings were still in the north, so his dark servant had two missions. At least one of them might be accomplished.”

“Why did Sauron not send his son?” Fëanor asked. Which was a good question. Glorfindel flashed him a glance which almost – but not quite – held a smile.

“Vanimórë was deep in the south, and Sauron had to be strong to enforce his will upon him. Vanimórë always abhorred killing his mother's kin, and fought against it.”

“He fought _with_ us in the last battle on the flanks of Orodruin.” Tindómion's voice was distant, his eyes turned to Gil-galad, who gazed back. Memories linked them. “Perhaps Sauron preferred not to expend the energy to coerce his son, while he was still recovering his power. The Úlairi did his bidding without question.”

“They were always thought to be Sauron's most dread servants,” Glorfindel said, “In truth, Vanimórë was far more dangerous. The battle at the High Pass could have been very different had he lead the Orcs, had he been sent out to hunt Frodo Baggins, the Hobbit, and the One Ring. If he had been his father's creature, many things would now be different. Sauron knew that Vanimórë would fight him every step. Indeed it was easier, many time for him to use the Ringwraiths.”

“He would not have killed me.” Legolas' words held complete belief, and Glorfindel came to his side and smiled.  
“No. Not thee or the one who came after, who was so like thee. But had he not been as he was...” He turned his head to the others. “And the fact that the Úlairi were so attuned to Sauron's mind and will, worked in our favor. Mûrazôr sensed us leave Imladris, one might say I called him out, for he knew me. He took it upon himself to confront us. We gave battle, broke them and pursued. They were fleeing when they came upon the wood-Elves.” He paused. “The wraith-lord sought Legolas, but in the confusion of that second confrontation, took his mother – and killed her, for no reason. They never needed any.”

There was silence, the clouds flowed above them like a peaceful sea.

“I was too late,” Glorfindel said softly. “The wraith fled me and was met by Istelion, and the horse went mad. It threw Mûrazôr, who went into the shadows.”

And there had been battle again. Although the Silvan warriors had slain many Orcs, there had been eighty of them, and more behind, coming from the pass, but those, after a token shower of arrows which fell short, retreated to their caves. Glorfindel had guessed they had been ordered to do so by the wraith-lord, for the blood-lust which consumed the Orcs when confronted by Elves inevitably over-rode their sense.

~~~

Legolas' head was on his mother's breast. He felt a hand on his back, firm and comforting, became aware of the sounds of fighting. He raised his head, seeing her face, sweet and cold in the light that was blushing into the sky. Hatred rose in him like hot sap, and he leaped to his feet, bow in hand. It was not yet the draw-weight of the bows the warriors carried, for he had more growing yet to do, but each arrow plummeted into the clot of Orcs, and each one struck. It was only when his questing fingers found nothing, that he realized he had run out of arrows. He reached for his knife, and his hand was caught.

“It is over,” a voice said and he whirled in anguish to the golden-haired figure. Very tall he was, beautiful as the rising sun, as the Power Legolas had named him.

“Lord, please...my mother...” He made a beseeching gesture, trembling lips closing on the words he could not bear to utter. And _why?_ he was demanding silently of this one before him. _Why?_

He found himself encompassed in strong arms, an embrace so complete, so protective that he felt as if Arda might crack but he would still be held, sheltered and safe. Surely this shining Power could thrust back Time itself, and bring his mother from the shadows?

“Legolas Thranduilion.” He was gently moved back, held by his arms. “I am Glorfindel.”

Legolas knew the name. His father had spoken of the re-born _Golodh_. He said, his voice cracking: “You can save her.” He felt it as something in his soul, a knowledge that brooked no denial. Glorfindel frowned as if puzzled.  
“I am no Vala. I am sorry.”

The crack of Legolas' fist striking his jaw seemed very loud. Something dangerous sparked a brighter flame in Glorfindel's eyes for a moment, then he turned his head at the approach of hooves.

This man's hair was darker, his eyes sheened with silver. He said something in a mellifluous voice, in that same strange tongue, which must, Legolas realized, be Quenya. Of course, these were _Golodhrim_ of Imladris, he thought, remembering the letter from Elrond which spoke of an escort. Glorfindel shook his head.

“I was too late, Istelion.”

The warrior dismounted, gazed down at the dead woman and snarled a curse. He stooped, reached for something on the ground close to her, and Legolas saw that it was his knife. The sense of horror weighted him more deeply, crushing air from his lungs, for the long blade and pale wood of the hilt were singed as if the weapon had been through fire. The silver eyes lifted to Legolas, but he spoke to Glorfindel.  
“He struck it?”

“Yes, it was bravely done.”

“And why did he strike thee?” There was no censure in his words.

“He thought I could save her.”

~~~

The clouds being pushed back inland, mild blue patches of sky melting through them.

Glorfindel said steadily: “Elgalad told me, when we were pursuing Vanimórë and Maglor...” So short a time ago. “That he had always believed Vanimórë, his 'lord', could do anything. He could not comprehend how any-one, even Sauron, could enslave him and hurt him. Legolas believed that I could bring his mother back from the Halls of Waiting. What they were both feeling was a foreshadowing of what was to come, what we would be.”

“For a time I wanted to hate you,” Legolas' voice dropped into old sorrow. “You came out of the night like the Sun, trailing glory. I thought you Tauron. You were the answer to my prayer, and you could not bring back her spirit. I did hate you, for a time.”

Glorfindel nodded, looked into the past when he first had seen the prince, young, wounded by the touch of evil, riven by shock and grief. His hair had seemed silver under the stars and he had looked like some-one, a face out of the drowned forests of lost ages, some-one loving and loyal to their bitter, bitterest death. Within Glorfindel tides had moved and surged, even as the youth had looked at him with bewilderment and disbelief which flattened to furious hate.

The Elves of the Greenwood mourned for their dead. With the Imladrians, they tended the wounded. None of them wished to imagine Thranduil's grief. Cedor's face was bruised with loss.

“Thou canst not return yet,” Glorfindel told them. “There are many more Orcs in their hold under the pass, and the chiefest of Sauron's Úlairi leads them. Attempt that way now thou couldst lose more, and thy prince also.”

“Then what can we do?” Cedor demanded of him. “My king has lost his wife and queen this day, and warriors he loved. He has to know.”

Glorfindel stood like a legend cast in gold, but his eyes were wild with leashed violence against the dark, the guilt he felt for smashing the prince's hopes. “There are wounded here, and the orcs may yet follow. We must reach Imladris, Captain. Do not risk more lives. And,” he cast a look the white-faced Legolas. “Thy prince struck the wraith-lord.”

Cedor flashed a look and strode to Legolas' side.  
“I felt the wraith...He is cold.” Freshly concerned, he turned back to Glorfindel.

“It is the cold of the other side, the tormented place betwixt life and death where the Úlairi dwell. I can help him, but we must go now, Captain.”

~~~

“He was...” Glorfindel lifted a gloved hand and lightly touched Legolas cheek, the windblown wheaten hair. “so _untarnished_ by the doom which ran through the Exiles, although it had touched his people. He was a freshet of sparkling water that none had ever drank from, and there was such _hope_ in his eyes, a trust which I saw in Elgalad's. A pure love. Yet I had to crush that hope and see it go out, and tried to tell myself that his young hate was better for both of us.”

Fëanor slammed his fist against his boot, and tipped back his head, looking up into the opening lakes of milky-blue, as if trying to see beyond the sky.

“Of course – the punishment for such love.” He lowered his head, asked quizzically: “Knowing it, how couldst thou allow thyself to take him?”

Glorfindel's faint smile was dry. “Would that have stopped thee?”

“The Valar were wrong.”

“That was not what I asked.”

“I know.” Fëanor's eyes glittered over Legolas. “Nothing stopped me but death. Does that answer thee? And it did not stop _thee,_ evidently.”

“It stopped me for a time. I needed him, and I had no intention of returning to Valinor or of dying. To the Silvan Elves such love was accepted. I made myself believe the Valar would not punish him, at least.”

“Because his folk knew no better?” Fëanor lifted his brows.

Too clever, that one. He always had been.

“My father did know the Laws,my lord,” Legolas told him evenly. “He did not accept them, and I think he did not truly believe any punishment could be attached to them. But I...I heard Glorfindel talking one evening, to Istelion, and what he said made me determined to pretend I knew nothing. And to give myself to him.”

Now it was clear that Fëanor truly was amused. Tindómion too, was smiling a little at the memory.

“I am sure he could not have resisted such an offering,” Fëanor said. “Certes, I would not have.”

“I did not,” Glorfindel replied curtly, although his eyes held a deep fire, desire and love mingled. “Istelion can tell thee, but some things I will not share. Suffice it to say that my soul knew what was right, even though the Laws pronounced it wrong.” He urged his horse ahead, Legolas' beside it and the others followed.

“It was a sad time.” Tindómion's smile had faded. “And yet, some things are inevitable.”

His grandfather nodded, eyes bright as white flame.  
“Yes,” he agreed. “Did Legolas truly tempt Glorfindel beyond endurance?”

“Love and innocence are irresistible, and Glorfindel was darkened by what he had seen. He refused to accept the slow waning of our people, yet through the long years so many departed, came here to the havens, and at last they sailed. There were always some who refused to bow to Fate, as we named it, but there were never enough.”

“And it wearied the soul,” Maglor murmured. His son's eyes turned to his, silver to silver and he nodded, reaching out a hand impulsively.

“We could all have fallen to the darkness of the creeping defeat, even Glorfindel.”

“Perhaps especially Glorfindel,” Fëanor mused.

“Whose name was a call to battle, who was legend among us, who could not be seen to be anything less than a hero, a light against the dark. It was a burden.” Tindómion gazed ahead. “And I saw what was between he and Legolas from the first, saw what it gave him: the need to love and care. He did try to deny it, and so spoke to me, for I knew how it was to withhold myself from the one I loved.”

“And what didst thou advise him?” Gil-galad asked intently.

“I told him love was not the province of the Valar, however much they believed it was.”

Gil-galad stared at him with something too bitter for laughter at the back of his eyes.  
“Truly.” He pressed his mount into a run, and Tindómion felt Maglor's fingers close against his.

~~~

The air held a strange scent none of them recognized. It was bracing, driving into their faces on a mild wind, and the sky to the west had a pale brightness to it, blue fading into milky-white.

All were more wary in the next days, and Lorh muttered under his breath as he walked. Carreg scanned the land, looking for a likely place to stop. They were nearing the end of their endurance, all of them. They had skirted the hills south of the lake and come to a river which surged high with winter rains. To build near a river, perhaps on a rise, would provide them with clean water and food. Carreg had glimpsed large fish in the calmer eddies. The thin streams of Angmar had provided only small creatures with large heads, sometimes with unhealthy, mold-dappled scales.

There was little warning, and nowhere to hide. The riders came from the south, rounding a stand of woodland. Colors glinted under the cool sun, rich, brilliant.

They were not Men.

Carreg drew his axe and stood before his wife, aware of Ness beside him. He heard Lorh scream like a child. Even as he raised the weapon, his movements slow as a dream, something in him, some eye that had been closed for a long time, opened. He knew who these riders were, not from tales of terror told on winter nights, but from a history which was lost in shrouded centuries and yet murmured ever in the blood of his people.

The horses slackened their stride, but two came on. One of the riders was golden, the other's hair raven-black, but it was their eyes which pinned his soul like a moth against a window-shutter. They held the fire of stars.

The golden-haired one said, in a rich accent: “Peace, Man, we mean thee no harm. Put down thy weapons.”

“These are Men?” Fëanor asked, and could see he was not understood. He regarded them curiously. Glorfindel continued speaking, his voice steady and calming. There was a tinge of Power in it.

“Yes, grandfather,” Tindómion answered him.

“What language do they speak?” he asked and his grandson frowned and said, “Westron, or a form of it. There are some unfamiliar words.”

Glorfindel turned his head. The two young men had lowered their axes. he older one was slack-jawed and still gripping a long knife. One of the men turned and snapped at him, twisted it from his grip.

“Glorfindel,” Ecthelion said sharply.

“I know.” And he reached out to Vanimórë, shared with him what he saw, and felt the same startled jerk of shock.

_Bloody Hells._ Vanimórë swore. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Úlairi - Elven name for the Nazgûl.
> 
> Mûrazôr is not the canon name of the Witchking of Angmar. It is the name invented by Iron Crown Enterprises for the Middle-earth Role Playing modules ( MERP ) published 1980's and 1990's.
> 
> At the time when Legolas met Glorfindel, Sauron was beginning to raise Dol Guldur in the south of the Greenwood. The time-frame is approximately 1000-1050 Third Age, about nine months after Vanimórë found Legolas in 'Prince of The Greenwood' ~ Dark Prince Book I.
> 
> Please note, the use of the word 'Hells' in my stories, or 'Bloody Hells!' as Van just exclaimed, refers to Angband, the Hells of Iron in the Elder Days. I am not using a modern curse word, I am convinced 'Bloody Hell!' has evolved from the Hells :)
> 
> *The Two Towers ~ Tolkien.


	19. ~ A Gathering of Tides ~

  
~ ~ There was nothing to do but go with the Elves. _Edhil,_ the Elf whom had spoken had called them, and the word was familiar, but old and half-forgotten like something heard as a child which is not remembered until some-one speaks it.  
  
Angmar bred a hard people, they fought to survive, and their lives were often brutal and short. Carreg did not fear death, but there was his wife to think of, and the Elves exuded a sense of effortless strength in their smooth movements, the flow of hard muscle under rich cloth. They were not armed or dressed for war, but they were warriors, he had no doubt, and he was certain that had he attacked them, he would have died. That was not what had stayed his hand, however. As the gold-haired one spoke, Cell's hand had closed on his arm. Her expression was of one whom had come out of a windowless room into daylight. There was awe, and many thoughts were passing behind her eyes, but he saw no fear.   
  
Some of the Elves rode in a loose cordon about them, others dismounted to walk. They glittered, vivid against the green-brown of winter grass and leafless trees, and their steps were noiseless, fluid as running water. Carreg found himself looking up into the light-burned eyes of the fair one, and telling him of Angmar, their flight from the orcs, and the journey into these unknown lands.   
  
“Father.” Aredhel's voice brought Fingolfin's eyes to her. He had been gazing intently at the two men. “The woman is great with child. She needs to rest.”  
  
“Yes, I know,” he replied and caught Glorfindel's attention who nodded and addressed Cell courteously. She lifted her head, and despite the grime of long travel, the ragged clothes, her grey eyes were clear and proud.  
  
“If the way is not far, I will walk, lord.”   
  
The language was changed from the ancient Edain tongue whence it had sprung, but, as with Finrod, who had first come upon Men, the thoughts of these people were not hard to read for the Eldar. Mind meshed with word, and as they spoke they could be understood.   
  
Aredhel shook her head with a small smile, recognizing a kindred spirit, and admiring it, but there was a time for pride.  
“I think not, I will ride back and send for a wagon.”   
  
“That would be well,” Glorfindel agreed. “We will stop here.”  
  
Carreg would rather have fallen asleep on his feet than admit it, but he was grateful to rest. The Elves dismounted, brought out skins of wine and food wrapped in cloths: new bread, cheese and sweet dried apples. Angmar did not have vineyards, and the first swallow warmed Carreg from his belly to his toes. As if from a distance, he wondered at his lack of fear, for it was not the wine which disarmed him. From the moment he had heard the Elf speak, he had felt the long tension drain away. Leaning against his shoulder, Cell ate with an appetite that pleased him and, Ness bit heartily into a wedge of cheese. Only Lorh did not eat, tipping a wineskin and drinking deep, red streaking down into his beard.  
  
“There is no danger from them.” His wife's words were soft. She touched his arm and nodded toward Lorh. “But watch him.”  
  
“He is a cowardly drunk,” Carreg hissed.  
  
“Yes,” she agreed. “And there is the danger.”  
  
“We will watch him, Ness and I,” he assured her and his cousin nodded at him from where he sat close by, understanding. “Did you dream them?” he asked, his eyes going back to the Elves.  
  
“Perhaps,” she murmured and he knew the deflection for what it was. “Or perhaps we were dreamed, husband.”  
  
“Why do we not fear them?” he demanded of her and himself and her face became thoughtful.  
  
“Because demons would not have such memories of pain.”  
  
After a moment, he realized what she meant. For all their glamor, there was a depth in them that held every emotion he had ever known, and ones he had not yet experienced. They were too _human_ to be demons.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Fëanor came to his brother's side, considering the thoughts and questions that had flown back and forth and the long, curse-colored history he had been shown as a prisoner of Night. He did not dismiss this as no concern of his. At the root of all that bloody past lay himself.  
  
 _Yet the Valar were clever. What better weapon to face Morgoth and keep his attention focused on Middle-earth than we, our alliance with the Sindar and then with men?_  
  
He looked at his brother until the starlit eyes turned to his. Glorfindel was watching him closely.  
  
 _They are not them,_ Fëanor stated rather than asked. _It is my understanding that such things cannot be, not for Men._  
  
 _No, their souls are their own, but the resemblance is uncanny,_ Glorfindel replied.  
  
 _I knew them. Fingon and Gil and I attended their weddings._ Fingolfin's head shook briefly. _Almost I thought they would know me, and then I remembered the ages gone._  
  
Another mind joined theirs, it sounded, Fëanor thought, as a seductive kiss in the night would feel, and it stroked him like an overture from a lover, curious and sensual.  
  
 _There is no doubt of the likeness._   
  
Fëanor said one word. “Why?”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
It had been sung, long ago, that the grave where Túrin son of Húrin and his mother Morwen lay, would never be defiled or thrown down even if the sea were to cover the land. Some foresight had been on that bard of Brethil, for the War of Wrath indeed drowned Beleriand, yet the place where Túrin, Nienor and Morwen Eledhwen had died remained, a lonely isle lost in the vast western waters.  
  
Vanimórë had not known the prophecy. If it had ever come to the ears of Morgoth or Sauron, it had never reached him. And they, no doubt, would have found it amusing.   
  
~~~  
  
 _The vapor swirled aside. They were high up, and in this place sat a man upon a chair. He was bound there, hair and beard matted and filthy, hands clenched into fists, showing the long thumbnails ingrained with dirt. A stench came from him and the garments he wore had long rotted to rag.  
  
And his eyes were windows into torment; betrayal was there, madness, the images of a last battle standard falling under a sea of foes, the death of any hope. Yet they were unnaturally bright and there was something in them which the youth had never seen before. Defiance. Unbending resolve. Even as Melkor grasped his tangled hair in one hand and jerked back his head, still it remained; the firm jaw was clenched shut.  
  
“Speak and this will be over, Húrin.” Voice of iron heated to melting, poured from a great crucible. The flesh over the Man's bones seemed to tighten against it, but he made no reply.  
  
“Where does it lie?”_  
  
 _ **I will not break for him, either, Man,**_ Vanimórë had vowed, meeting the tortured, defiant eyes.*  
  
~~~  
  
 _What a child I was. I knew nothing of what was to come..._  
  
Húrin had never revealed where Gondolin lay.  
  
Elgalad was looking at him, eyes like a soft spring twilight. Emerging from dark memories to see that lovely trusting face, was a joy so profound it was a physical pain, tinged with unbelief at his freedom. Vanimórë knew smiled, but could not know how it transfigured his face, lighting it like a beacon-fire. Elgalad's eyes burned back, seeming to take something of the dark violet into their soft gray, and lending a gentleness to the arrogant beauty rendered so grave by a life of slavery.   
  
_I know thy part in this, in my life, and what I may or may not become,_ Vanimórë thought, but privately. _Thou wert born to love me, but what seest thou in me to love?_   
  
“I have to leave at sunrise.” His voice was throaty and it burned a flush across Elgalad's cheekbones. “The weather is changing, but for now, this fog will conceal thee.”  
  
“Why dost th-thou fear for m-me?” Elgalad whispered, leaning his face into the caress of the slender fingers. “I am n-not as unskilled as thou doth think.”  
  
“It is not thy skill that is in question. I fear because thou thou art precious to me, and nothing is ever certain.” The sweet-curving lips were an invitation Vanimórë willingly accepted. He knew that he should resist, but surely there was some sharing allowed – for both of them? He felt Elgalad's hands move up over his back, clench in his hair, and sighed his frustration into the parted mouth, kissed the smooth brow, the closed eyelids. After a moment Elgalad said shakily, “These Men..knowest th-thou what this m-means?”  
  
“I know what it _could_ mean,” he murmured, letting his fingers slip through sheaves of silvery hair. “I only know what I would do, were the power mine. But it is not in me, and that is as well, I think.”   
  
  
  
~~~   
  
  
  
Elves habitually rode or walked. It was rare they needed any conveyance other than a horse, thus there were few carriages in Mithlond, and so Aredhel had ordered a hay-cart, and lined it with furs and down-filled pillows. It still retained the dusty-sweet scent of the previous summer, and as it rolled smoothly over the track toward the sea, Cell sat with her hand on her stomach and felt the pains and knew that the child would come before its time.  
  
She was not surprised, was grateful even, when the woman, beautiful as a dream, sat beside her, and not startled at all when they shared their thoughts. So it had been between Cell and her mother, before Lorh broke her skull her one night when drunk, a coward who would only strike those weaker than himself. He said she had fallen, but Cell knew the truth. Mind-communion was more complete than spoken words could ever be.  
  
Carreg, walking beside the cart, saw large, white-walled houses, streets of pale stone, towers tall and slender, and beyond it an expanse of water which passed beyond his sight. He stood with his cousin, whose eyes were wide and startled, then touched his arm and they walked down the gentle slope in silent wonder.  
  
Their perceptions were being prised away from all they knew, or believed they knew. There had been a room where water steamed in huge sunken baths. Angmar was a cold land, and bathing the whole body was infrequent. Carreg was surprised at how good it felt to scrub himself clean, to dry himself in the warmth and dress in clothes that felt soft against his skin. He marveled at the cloth, the soft hide of the boots. Then there had been hallways and rooms full of light, with woven hangings upon the walls, great beds, and settles. He had touched the pillars they passed and found them ice-smooth. They had eaten again in a chamber where clear glass glazed the windows, hot food this time, while they waited for his wife. He had not bathed with her, for it seemed improper, but she had told him she would be safe with the magnificent woman whom had sat with her in the cart. Carreg wanted to talk to Cell, to tread carefully through the shock that had all but locked his tongue, for he knew her words would be wise, even if incomprehensible. Ness was no more vocal, and both of them watched Lorh, who had retreated into a corner with wine, his eyes blank and cloudy.  
  
The door opened to reveal the golden Elf, bringing the sun into the room, at which Lorh showed his teeth and huddled back further.  
  
Glorfindel said gently, “Thy wife is giving birth.”  
  
“But it is before her time, lord,” Carreg protested, on his feet at once. “She said another moon at least. I wanted to find a place to build a shelter for her...”  
  
“Do not worry. She is strong, and there are women with her who have birthed children.” The eyes were so brilliant that it should have been impossible to read any expression in them, but Carreg could see kindness there.  
  
“I left to save her, lord, she must not die.” Carreg ran a hand through his hair, felt Ness at his side, his reassuring touch. “Your people beget children as Men do?” he asked, distractedly.  
  
“Of course. And our children are dear to us.”  
  
Lorh swore from his corner. “Fool. _Fool._ They will rip your brat from the womb and devour it ! You have lead us to our doom!”  
  
“We should have left you to the orcs, Lorh, for certainly _they_ would have devoured _you !_ ” Ness snapped and the older man snarled and cursed again. The fair young man flushed and said apologetically, “He is drunk, lord.”  
  
“Our babes are much like thine,” the Elf said in his antique manner, with a long look at Lorh. Now his eyes truly were unreadable and remote. “Perhaps thou wouldst wish to be with her? It is the custom of our menfolk to be present at a child's birth.”  
  
“It is not _our_ custom, lord.” Carreg was a little shocked. “The women say men are of no use in a birth chamber. But,” he added, “I would like to be close.”  
  
The smile was very human in it's understanding.  
“I will take thee to the adjoining room to wait.”  
  
  
  
~~~   
  
  
  
Maeglin's boots landed lightly on the strip of beach and he looked up, then began to climb. Another grave. This one was not personal to him, although the thread of his bloodline and this Man's had interwoven in that blood-stained tapestry of the Elder Days. He had hated Tuor, kin to Túrin, whose bones lay here, but he had hated so much then, hated and desired. And some of that hate had been the influence of the one who spoke stood at his shoulder at times, the spirit of Eöl, the father he had rejected, and whom in turn had rejected the call of Mandos.  
  
His face hardened. He would not seek to apportion blame, not this time. All the choices he had made had been his own. The timeless dark of the Void had left it's mark on him forever. He had been forced to see the consequences of his actions again and again. The images would never leave him.   
  
He thought of the eve of Tarnin Austa, of the bright golden day when he, hiding his treachery, had approached Glorfindel. He had come to offer the Lord of the Golden Flower one last chance, and had Glorfindel accepted him, he would have raised an alarm. He would not have revealed his betrayal. The lie was ready on his tongue, a concern that some of his people who mined beyond the city were over-late in returning for the celebration. For Maeglin had ever been careful to choose only those who were wholly loyal to accompany him on his journeys. It was not unusual for them to stay away for days or more at a time. The mines in the hills were known to all, but those who knew Maeglin ventured beyond their leaguer were sworn to secrecy, and he must have engendered some pride and love in his people, for they never betrayed him.  
The truth was, that all those captured with him had been put to death by Morgoth's servants. That had shaken him, as it was meant to, making him more malleable to Morgoth's proposal, but let it not be said he did not grieve. He simply set it aside, for too much hung in the balance.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Servants were hanging lanterns from the old apple trees in Glorfindel's gardens, and there was the sound of soft laughter. Small birds swooped back and forth from the bowl of a fountain, and Glorfindel, relaxed in a lawn shirt and breeches, was standing beside it, an arm about the shoulder of one of his young warrior's. The mane of glittering hair was casually bound back, uncovering the straight shoulders, the hard buttocks and shapely legs. Twinned lust and jealousy thrust into Maeglin's breast.  
  
 _Even then, I did not believe it would fall, Morgoth had promised me the city...Idril, and Glorfindel._ He paused in his climb. _No, be truthful. I knew he lied, but I wanted to believe him. And I was afraid._   
There had been Great Orcs about him, huge wolves with eyes like tainted rubies, and he had not quailed before them, but Morgoth's presence was a hammer of hate. He was shown what would happen to him if he resisted, and set against that torment, what he would gain if he betrayed his city: kingship, Idril, Glorfindel.   
  
This day, which was to be the last day of Gondolin, forever remained in Maeglin's mind as one encased in honey. It was warm and windless, and the sky was a deep cobalt against the stark white peaks of the mountains. Glorfindel's gardens were the colors of his House, _a field in spring,_ Maeglin remembered with a hard pain.   
  
“She will be welcomed into my household with love,” Glorfindel was saying, and the younger man flushed and smiled.  
  
“If she accepts me, my lord.”   
  
Glorfindel laughed with easy humor. “She loves thee, this is simply the opportunity for both of thee to admit it.” Then, as if he sensed Maeglin's presence, he turned and the warmth faded from his face. It became a carving of aloof courtesy as he bowed briefly, one prince to another, for whatever his title, he was and ever would be a prince. Wordlessly he gestured and and lead Maeglin into the villa, to a chamber lined with books and maps, and long windows open to the garden. Closing the double doors, Glorfindel leaned back against them. The fine material of the shirt clung to his hard belly, his chest, outlining the nipples, pierced through with small golden hoops, affectation or decoration, Maeglin did not know, but the sight of them aroused him, and always had.   
  
“This is the last time I will ask thee, cousin.” Maeglin pressed against him, drawing the shirt from Glorfindel's breeches, feeling the glide of silken skin under his fingertips. His tongue flicked over metal ring and hard nub and he heard the hitch of breath.   
  
“I do not love thee,” Glorfindel murmured, even as he arched his throat, allowed the lips to settle on his neck, move upward to his mouth.  
  
“I cannot help wanting thee, even as I cannot help but want her !” Maeglin whispered. “And she I cannot touch and thou wilt allow me only to slake the edges of my appetite. Take me, proclaim my as thy mate and Idril shall know she need never fear me.”   
  
“I have a mate.”   
  
“And thou art not in love with Ecthelion, nor he with thee.” Maeglin touched the tumescence that jutted at Glorfindel's groin. “And thou are roused by me, do not deny it.”  
  
“I do not deny it. I do not deny thy beauty, or the enjoyment I take in mastering thee – whom would master _me._ ” Gold dust motes hung in the still air, clung to the heavy lashes fringing Glorfindel's eyes. They were brilliant. Very cold. “I acquit thee of stupidity, _cousin._ Thou knowest why we play this game. In this way I have some control over thee, and Idril is given some peace, but do not try to make bargains with me.”  
  
Maeglin dwelt furiously and hungrily on an image of Glorfindel beaten down on his knees, begging for clemency, pleading to be taken. It was a delicious thought. Blind rage closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, seeing the challenging scroll of the mouth, the uncompromising, unblinking gaze, the wild anger became a controlled, bitter fire within him.  
  
“There is something cold in thee,” Glorfindel whispered and, for a moment, Maeglin wondered, almost with relief, if that vast army under black and red banners could be seen in his own eyes. “I have given thee all that I can.”   
  
“Not yet.” Maeglin turned, and he was cold now indeed. He saw in Glorfindel's expression something which might have been curiosity, or a belated regret. “We could have been princes together, matched and mighty. Thou wilt regret taunting me, thou wilt regret _this game !_ ” He spun away, striding out through the green-gold gardens, the sweet, lazy sun of the day.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
He had died before Glorfindel, and in the horror of Night, was shown the fall of Gondolin. He could not look away, there was no hiding. In the Void one was pared to the essence of what one was, to endure, or become part of it, one's identity lost to madness. He watched Glorfindel's doomed and valiant duel with the Balrog, greatest of them all save Gothmog, he watched his cousin die, the furnace-blast of pain from the demon's throat blinding him and charring his beautiful face to ruin. He saw everything, and he could not gloat, he could not triumph. Even had he had all Morgoth promised, still he could not have exulted at that gallant, horrible end.   
  
On the tiny isle, surrounded by measureless water, he took a deep, life-affirming breath, and trod upward.   
  
Time had softened and molded the stones of the cairn. Small pink flowers nodded in the wind. One tall slab of stone stood proud, and Maeglin touched it, his fingers finding the ancient runes carved thousands of years ago. A deep silence lay on the place, brooding, tinged with sadness, ancient anger.   
  
He thought of Gondolin, of his mother, and of a curse older than the words written upon the stone.   
  
From behind him, Glorfindel said: “Maeglin.”   
  
He was clad as he had been that last day, hair braided back, as Elves wore it when about to embark on physical tasks.   
“I saw a darkness in thee,” he continued. “I know now what it was. And thou hadst risen exceeding high. Thus I sought to watch thee, and to teach thee that thou wouldst never be heir to Turgon's throne. There was some satisfaction in that.”   
  
“I knew exactly what thou didst,” Maeglin said dryly. “It was my choice to allow it.”   
  
“I would have pursued thee hadst thou turned away. Yes, I can be unconscionable.”   
  
The grey eyes, Aredhel's lovely eyes, narrowed a little.   
“I knew that too, Golden One, darling of Turgon, heir to Gondolin, beloved Lord of the Golden Flower. Thou couldst be as cold as I if it suited thee.”   
  
Amused laughter sounded from behind him. Maeglin turned to see Sauron's son. He had seen Sauron in Angband, but there was no resemblance to Morgoth's Lieutenant in this vivid, cynical beauty, save the smile.  
  
“ _Families._ ” Vanimórë shook his head, still smiling. “Or should I say, _Finwëians!_ ” He walked to them, still holding the smile, but now it was marble cool.  
“There is one thing perhaps thou shouldst know, Maeglin.” And he looked at Glorfindel, who nodded.   
  
“Gondolin was doomed to fall,” he said, an edge of anger honing his voice to a sword-blade. “It does not excuse thy betrayal, but the fact is, no army should have been able to approach the city without being seen. They had to come across the waste of Anfauglith and over the mountains to the north. And that took time.”  
  
Maeglin snapped rigid. “The Eagles!”  
  
“They were commanded not to alert us,” Glorfindel affirmed. “But Thorondor loved the Elves, and he disobeyed Manwë at the end. It was he who carried Fingon to rescue Maedhros, out of love, and the impulse of it. He was loathe to disobey the direct order of Manwë, but his great heart nigh broke with the sorrow, and he lead out such as would follow him.”  
  
As Maeglin watched him, Glorfindel turned and looked up at the mound, which was a grave like his own, and said, as if dismissing the subject of death, treachery and the fall of kings:  
“Come, thy task begins here, cousin.” ~  
  
  
  
~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Taken from Doom Wears Many Faces ~ Lords of The Light.
> 
> Note: The idea of Eöl's soul not having heeded the call of Mandos at his death is Amaranth's. Since some of her work is written within this AU, I obviously do not want to clash. :) I also thought it was very likely that Eöl would choose to remain as a houseless spirit rather than go to the Halls of Waiting.


	20. ~ So Long Dead ~

  
There were no more words after that. Each of them was absorbed with their own thoughts as, using tools Maeglin had brought from the ship, they uncovered stones mortared together by time, by salt-spray and sea wind. From the Teleri vessel drifted voices raised in a sad music like the regret of the ocean itself.

The sun arced in its low winter track across the sky. Their clothes were gritty with dust and scars marked their hands, for this was a somber act, too serious for the power that was yet new to them. They felt the presence of others, but only as Anor dipped into the west, did they turn to see the eyes of Irmo and Estë upon them.

Vanimórë slapped dust and earth from his hands.  
“So much pain...Yet the blood-price demanded by the Valar had to be paid in full, did it not?”

“That is unfair,” Irmo protested. “Eru had appointed the hierarchy of the Valar within Arda. Thou knowest not all of us agreed with their policy. What could we do, war against one another?”

“Eru does not make mistakes, but the Valar can. Surely Melkor taught thee that?  
 _The Valar shall fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains,_ ” Vanimórë quoted with lethal precision. “I hope that thy consciences can find an excuse for thy lack of action, for I cannot.” He looked at Estë and some of the fury dissipated. He had seen his sister in so many women over the ages, those women whose strength was rooted in great love, a deep feminine power. His dealings with them were therefore marked by unexpected gentleness.  
“Give her...peace, lady.”

Irmo said, as his spouse looked at him silently from well-deep eyes: “I permit no dreams to disturb those who rest in my gardens, but I cannot take away memories. The Elves remember.”

Vanimórë's expression smoothed into blankness, and he said dryly: “That I know.”

They were silent then, and the sun seemed to hold herself in an orange-gold haze over the sea.

It had been so long. Sometimes, Vanimórë thought he could only feel the passage of the Ages when he considered Men. He had never been able to dwell on time, for he had never believed he would be free. He would have gone mad long ago had he considered the years of his slavery.

The last of the stones were laid aside. Anor, huge and amber on the rim of the world, threw her light full into the cairn.  
And an image rose over the isle and the ocean, misty as a caul: a land long sunk under the waves. Through the sea-brine Vanimórë smelled pine, heather, fresh water, heard its wild thunder. He understood now what he had not until his apotheosis in Fos Almir. He had believed Time a river forever flowing onward, and so it was, but more than that. Everything that had ever happened, or ever would happen was _now._ And _now_ Túrin confronted Glaurung above the seething fury of Cabed-en-Aras.

“We may not act,” Irmo cautioned them.

_“Hail Worm of Sauron, well met again! Die now and the Darkness have thee!”*_

They watched, for they were helpless to do anything else and there were tears on Estë's cheeks as a wind blew upon them that was birthed in past ages. They witnessed a young woman come running to the side of the unconscious man, her brother, her beloved husband and they heard Glaurung hiss venomous truth even as he died. Anguish burst over Nienor's face as she remembered her life, and her scream, as she hurled herself into the chasm of Cabed-en-Aras, was wild with madness – and brutally truncated as her body struck the rocks. Her tall form, streaming hair, passed like mist through Vanimórë's hand as he reached out...

_We may not act..._

At the last Túrin, black haired, fey-eyed, recognizing the doom had come upon him spoke to the sword, Gurthang, and cast himself upon it. The cross-guard drove violently against his breast and he stiffened, crouched on hands and knees. Words fell like red jewels from his lips, all of them precious. _Father, mother, Nienor, Finduilas, Sador, Gwindor...Beleg..._ It was a longer and harder death than the lays had it. And there was music, harp-song like tears.

Glorfindel went down on one knee beside the dying man. Vanimórë came from the brink of the chasm where Nienor had vanished and knelt opposite him. They had not been here, they were not here now, yet in some way they were, and Túrin knew it. Crimson dropped from his mouth, past hard gasps of agony, and he formed words.

“It is not ...ended.”

Through Time, their hands reached out, rested gently on the dark head.

“Ilúvatar, have mercy.”

The two Powers, who had themselves known pain, ached with Túrin, trying to draw his death agonies into themselves.

“He will,” Glorfindel said softly. “Rest now,Túrin.”

“Oh, _Beleg !_ ” It was a groan holding grief that had never been healed, the most dreadful guilt, the deepest love. And still there was music all around them, as if Arda itself was a harp, and the harpist was weeping as he played.

As the past withdrew from them, the last sound they heard was the mourning roar of Teiglin.

Glorfindel and Vanimórë rose, their faces scoured raw and their minds, joined for a moment lashed fire into the west, at the Valar who had allowed this and so many other griefs to pass uncontested, at Melkor in the void, whom had relished every one.

The bones of the dead man showed his height, the high brow, cheekbones and firm jaw that had molded his face, and earned him the name _Adanedhel,_ Elf-Man. His skeletal fingers still curled about the hilt of the sword, but the blade was snapped in twain. Half of it had fallen into the hollow under the ribcage.

Glorfindel walked forward and prised the hilt carefully from the bones, Vanimórë drew forth the broken half and they stepped back, together holding the metal flat over their palms.

The ground moved as if a sleeping beast stirred under it, and the great stone toppled and cracked asunder, falling across the cairn like a tomb door. Dust bloomed, formed the shape of a tall Man. His head turned to them, and he was very beautiful, with that in his eyes which would make stone weep, yet there was more: the eagerness of a warrior unleashed to do battle.

_It is not ended._

So long dead, and he had never found peace. So long he had waited, locked to this place. There was a sigh, as if from the buried grave, or the spirit's lips and he bowed, right hand on left breast and then lifted his face to the east, and was gone into the wind.

A gull wheeled overhead, the first bird they had seen on the isle, and its cry was like a child's. Glorfindel looked up and then his head snapped east. Vanimórë spun around as if he would follow the released soul to the land.

“How can this be?” he demanded. “This is beyond any Power.”

“But not the greatest,” Irmo replied. “ We are bound, He is not. The souls of Men are in Eru's hands, Vanimórë.”

“What of his...sister?” Vanimórë's voice hesitated upon the last word. It would be so easy to ask, to look. Aman was not barred to him...he had barred himself from it. His words to Estë could have been for his mother, his sister or both. The one knew that he loved her, the other...how could she have loved the two children got on her by Sauron and nurtured by the darkest sorcery, keeping her chained and mad in her body? He could only hope, with a strange, lost ache, that she would find healing.

“Nienor loved,” Irmo said simply. “She did not kill, or act out of pride or desire for revenge. She has nothing to atone for, no regrets, no burden upon her. It is Túrin who brought war and death in his wake, and perhaps it can never be known if the curse drove him, or his own overweening pride.”

Vanimórë nodded. “Where is the one who should be here?” he asked, forcing the thoughts away.

“He will come.”

“Why?” Maeglin asked. “Why this man? And Men's soul's...”

“They can be bound to Arda,” Vanimórë said, thinking of the men of Dunharrow, cursed by Isildur, and there had been others before them. He had seen ghosts many times and in many places. Sometimes they were memories, sometimes they were more. “It is a dark thing, but at times their own souls bind them. This was both a curse and because Túrin could not rest.” He turned back, looked at Irmo, with raised brows, then at Glorfindel. “Morgoth could not see clearly, but sometimes he saw enough.”

“Húrin cursed Morgoth,” Irmo said. “He vowed that one of his blood would see Morgoth's downfall.”

Glorfindel was staring at him, unbinding the thick braid of hair, pushing his hands through it as if the action concentrated his tumultuous thoughts.

“And Morgoth cursed Húrin for he would not reveal where Gondolin lay.” Vanimórë sounded as if his mind were working through the past. “He and Huor were taken there by the Great Eagles, so Morgoth could see nothing in his mind. Morgoth was obsessed with finding Gondolin, he spoke of it sometimes to Sauron.” His voice became glass-hard. “They ignored me, or thought I slept.”

“I was there when Huor told Turgon that from his blood and the king's a new star would arise.” Maeglin spoke without inflection, an old bitterness straightening his mouth.

“And thus thou didst hate Tuor and tried to kill his son.” Glorfindel's eyes glinted dangerously in the dusk.

“Yes,” Maeglin replied shortly. “But why would Morgoth fear the curse of a Man? Had he truly feared such a thing he could have exterminated Húrin's family when the Men who served him occupied Dor-lómin.”

“He wanted to break Húrin,” Vanimórë said. “He wanted him to suffer and see all that happened to his family. It would afford him far greater satisfaction than a quick death. And he was right to fear Gondolin. He knew something there was perilous to him.” His eyes swept to Glorfindel. “But the peril lay not only in Eärendil. There must be one to lead the Elves to war against him at the end, one to represent every race that he tried to annihilate. He sensed _thee_ Glorfindel, or rather, what thou wouldst become.”

Glorfindel's hair was cloth-of-gold in the failing light.  
“And what of thee?” he asked quietly, as if they were alone. “What is thy purpose?”

Vanimórë shrugged. “I do not know,” he admitted. For he did not. Not then.

“Maeglin?” Glorfindel's voice went taut.

Maeglin's face was unexpectedly open.  
“Yes,” He said, and then again, “Yes. I can re-forge Anglachel. I smelted Anguirel in Gondolin to find the secret of my father's forging. I discovered it, and had the reforged blade when...I died, I know not what became of it.”

“If it was taken out of Gondolin, it was probably buried in the ruins of Angband. I never saw it.” Vanimórë told him, but his brows drew together for a moment and he glanced eastward again.

Glorfindel nodded. “Very well. Go to the ship, Maeglin. Sail on. I will meet thee at the place appointed, with Aredhel, and we will ride to Imladris. There thou wilt go by the name Durion.” He hesitated and added: “The Noldor will leave Mithlond, but Aredhel wishes to remain with thee. After thy purpose is achieved then we will consider further.”

“I know not what my purpose is beyond remaking this sword.” Maeglin reached out, touched the hilt, seeing the wonderful workmanship, the trace of runes down the blade. “What wouldst thou have me do, _cousin?_ Remain nameless and unhomed for all this new life?”

“Thou canst not know thy fate, Maeglin,” Irmo said. “But it is also in thine own hands. Remember that.”

He inclined his head. “I know it, lord Irmo.”

~~~

“Túrin's soul has been bound to the place of his death all these years.” Glorfindel's voice was deep with sadness. “Will he remember?”

Irmo lifted a hand in an oddly uncertain gesture.  
“We know little of Men, Glorfindel. I know only what I have been told, and all it is needful for me to know. His soul, freed from this place, entered a body prepared for it, for he must be recognized. The father and mother bear the physical resemblance to Húrin and Morwen, so that the son will _look_ like Túrin as well as _be_ him. They are of the race of the Edain and perhaps there is more to this, but beyond that we cannot see and do not know. None of the Valar know what Men might have been had Melkor not corrupted them at the beginning of their days. I believe Melkor guessed they would have been such that even the Ainur would fear them.”

“The fair one, Ness, he looks the image of Tuor,” Glorfindel observed, after a long silence wherein they contemplated this. “But Tuor, of all the race of Men, was permitted to choose the life of the Elves.”

“Eru permitted that Tuor live as the Firstborn, yes.” Irmo agreed. “It lies beyond our power to grant. And He has allowed Túrin's soul to be reborn. There are some tribes of Men who believe their souls are endlessly reborn.”  
Vanimórë nodded briefly, he had encountered that belief in the East. And who was to say it was not true? Men were not within the purview of the Valar.

“Túrin will remember.” Irmo looked from one to the other, “But he must never be told. His actions may not be influenced. It will be a difficult time for him then, but he will be loved. He was always loved, although he turned from it as if from a charity he would not stoop to receive. But there was one who loved Túrin unconditionally and with all his soul, who died by his hand. He went willingly and in despair into the Void, carrying the knowledge of Túrin's doom with him, knowing that his soul had found no peace, even in death. And thou knowest both of thee, how generous, how deep is the love of those sprung from Beleg Cúthalion. Elgalad and Legolas bear his blood, after all.”

“Yes,” Glorfindel said. “We know.” Anger shook through the brief words, that Beleg too had been punished for selfless love, and gone into Night _knowing_ the one he loved was doomed. He shared a look with Vanimórë.  
“It is not going to be simple. He will have to be raised in Imladris. Elrond will leave but his sons know Men. It will be a good place for a child to grow and for his parents to live, and the world is changed – and yet...”

Vanimórë looked east again. “And yet, there is something. No, it will not be simple.”

“I think we will not be permitted to intervene.”

At that Vanimórë smiled icily. Above him Menelvagor bestrode the night sky.

“Perhaps...” he said. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * From Of Túrin Turambar, the Silmarillion.
> 
> Atrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, in Morgoth's Ring of the HoMe series, has some interesting speculations of the nature of Man or what it might have been before their corruption by Morgoth.
> 
> To Beruthiel's Cat: the Music is your idea. :) Thank-you for letting me use it.


	21. ~ Cold and Ancient Shadows ~

  
~ She looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her, pale skin against dark hair, a flush on her cheeks after the labor of bringing their son into the world. There was a deep weariness in her eyes, but satisfaction gleamed deep in them as she looked up at him. Carreg leaned toward her, kissed her mouth, then looked down at their child.

“He is very fine.” His heard the huskiness in his voice and did not care, for only now could he acknowledge how truly worried he had been for her. The women of Angmar worked at their tasks until the birth-pangs gripped them, and shortly after would be up again, the babes strapped against their breasts. Even so, Carreg had feared for his wife's health, ignoring Lorh's increasingly hysterical demands that they travel faster, and forcing down his own sense of urgency.

“And strong,” Cell murmured proudly. Carreg ran his fingers down her cheek. The women had left the chamber as he entered, casting him smiling looks. They must have bathed her of the birth-blood and sweat, and dressed her in this loose, light robe. She smelled sweet and her hair was sleek. He felt an overwhelming need to hold her, lie with her in this place, warm and sheltered, away from Lorh's bitter eyes. He had withheld himself during all that long journey, and at times his need for her had been great. Something of his desire must have shown in his eyes, for her own glinted with that look only he had ever seen, driving an ache into his groin.

“He is healthy?” he asked, taking a deep breath, knowing she needed time to recover. “He was not too early?”

“Only a moon, or less. Yes, he is healthy. He was meant to live,” Cell told him. “It was time for him to be born.”

“Were you really cursing the day my father begot me?” he asked, relaxing enough to smile, and saw her lips turn up at the corners.

“Who told you?”

“One of the Elves who waited with me. He said his wife bore him seven sons and that his wife told him each time never to come near her again.” He gently touched his son's brow, watched the tiny, perfect fingers curl. “I cannot imagine them bearing children.”

“The women who tended me had both borne children.” Cell settled back more comfortably. “Just as we do. We were meant to come here, Carreg.”

“I believe you,” he whispered.

“His name is Túrin.”

In Angmar, the men named their children, but her expression forestalled his objection, and it was no true objection; he was simply startled at her brisk overturning of ancient custom.

 _Túrin._ The name sounded familiar, as _Edhil_ had, and in the same half-forgotten way.

“That is his name,” she said. “His true name. I knew when his soul sparked like a fire within me. I dreamed his name, and I knew he would live. I knew you would bring us to a safe place.”

“Then let him be Túrin,” he agreed, moved by her trust. He had done what he had to, and he thought, something had surely guided them into this green land. “I love you,” he added as she smiled and closed her eyes.

“You are a good man, Carreg,” she murmured. “And you are shamed that you left our home and did not stay and fight. But we had to leave. You do not have to prove to me that you are a man of courage. You saved us. You saved me when you took me as your wife.” She was still smiling as she drifted into sleep.

~~~

They were gathered in Glorfindel's villa, Fëanor, Fingolfin and Aredhel, come from the birthing of the child, her eyes bright and expectant.

Glorfindel had bathed the mud and stone-dust away and his hair glinted in damp ripples. Legolas' face was somber, and for once, there was no parry of words between Glorfindel and Fëanor, who listened with intense concentration, standing poised beside the great window.

“So Maeglin must reforge the cursed blade, because his father made it,” he said. “And this child, who is re-born...”

“Men call it reincarnation,” Legolas interposed. “Aragorn, who is king in Gondor now, traveled to many far lands, and some men believe their spirits return to inhabit new bodies, although they do not remember their other lives.”

“And _are_ they reincarnated?” Fëanor asked interestedly.

“The Valar do not know,” Glorfindel lifted his hands. “And that includes Vanimórë and myself. Men's souls pass to the Halls of Waiting, then journey on, perhaps to Eru Himself. There are many beliefs, but only Beren has ever returned from death.”

“There is another who has now.”

“Indeed, and such a thing can only be granted by Eru.” Glorfindel laid a silver jug of wine on the low table and poured the hot wine into goblets. He did not wish servants to attend him this night. It was not necessary or wise for many people to know about this.

“But why?” Fëanor slapped a hand against the wall. “For love alone? Surely so many have died in despair and grief, Glorfindel, both of Elves and Men? And to what purpose? If Túrin is born of men, he will die as a Man does, whether in the fullness of his years or from disease or wound, if I understand it aright. If the Elf who loved him, Beleg, were to find him again, then they would be parted sooner or later by the Man's death.”

“It is rare,” Glorfindel allowed. “that the Firstborn and Secondborn love, for that reason alone it is rare. There is too much grief in it. Perhaps it _is_ for love, Fëanor, but thou art right. As a Man, he will die. There is only one who did not. His cousin.”

“So men _may_ be immortal, if Eru grants them that dispensation?”

“They _are_ immortal, Fëanor, but not here on Arda. Whether their fate was once meant to be different, I do not know, but I would guess so, for Morgoth did corrupt them. Finrod once spoke to the Andreth, the Mortal woman who loved Aegnor. She told him that Morgoth was the darkness Men fled from, or some fled from.” Glorfindel sipped the wine. “But there _is_ more to this than love alone, although that would be a good enough reason. Túrin is something else.” A faint, appreciative smile touched his mouth. “How strange that evil can forge weapons against itself, for few can hate Morgoth and Sauron than Vanimórë, Sauron's son, and Túrin Turambar, Master of Doom may fulfil the promise of his name and avenge his race at the end.”

“Dagor Dagorath,” Fingolfin murmured. “The last battle before the end of Time.”

“Even so.” Glorfindel inclined his head. “And it is the one battle Morgoth must not be permitted to win.”

“He will not win,” Fëanor flashed.“ _I_ hate Morgoth with all my soul! I did so in the Void and do still! He slew my father – and my brother !” His eyes met Fingolfin's and the fire in them branded a blush across the other's cheeks.

“Thou wilt meet him, I have no doubt.”

“Yes, believe it, I _will_ meet him !” Fëanor slammed the declamation down and then said, more calmly: “So, Túrin has a destiny. And in this life he will have the opportunity to live a life free of the curse Morgoth laid on his family?”

“So it would seem. I do not _know._ ” Glorfindel made a gesture of impatience at his own ignorance, but this was not something that lay within his province. “When the woman, Cell, is recovered from the birth I will escort them to Imladris. It is a good place for a child to grow and for his parents to live and learn their history, before they fell into darkness under Angmar. There are still some Dúnedain in the north, and Aragorn will come into Arnor and reclaim it. They will not be alone.”

“They do not seem dark, Glorfindel.” Aredhel spoke for the first time. “Save the older one, there _is_ a darkness in him. His daughter both hates and fears him.”

“I saw that also,” Fingolfin said. “He is being guarded. Thou art right, their short lives have been hard, but there is no evil in the younger ones.”

“If the man attempts anything he will punished,” Fëanor said with flat authority. “And the Imladrians' can deal with him once he is there. I agree, the young men and the woman – all of them – have known fear and violence, but their hearts are not dark.” One could not, as he had, spend time watching a young Man pace while his child was being born, and fail to read his heart, see the things which mattered to him. He stepped forward to pick up a wine-cup. “Thou art determined to remain, Irissë?” His question was couched quite gently, and at the sound of her Quenya name, Aredhel blinked her long-lashed eyes.

“Yes, uncle. Wouldst thou not?”

“I would,” he agreed after a moment. “But I tell thee this, if Maeglin betrays or hurts thee, no matter if I have to come from our new Cuiviénen, I will see him dead.”

“Fëanor,” Fingolfin said sharply. “This is _my_ daughter!” He took her hand. “But I echo that. I love thee and I cannot see thee die – no nor be made heartsick by Maeglin, either. Promise me thou wilt be careful.”

“Lómion _loved me,_ father,” Aredhel whispered intently, deliberately using the name she had given to her son. “I promise thee I will be careful.”

Fingolfin looked at Glorfindel, who nodded.  
“He does love her, uncle. I had no compunction in searching his mind and soul to ascertain that. And he has his own part to play in what will unfold. Although Elrond is leaving, his sons are warriors and also wise. They lost a mother, they would lay down their own lives rather than see harm come to Aredhel.” He turned to her. “But Imladris is another secluded place, a haven between the Towers of Mist and the empty lands. We will be far away.”

“I have looked at maps, Glorfindel, I do understand. All I wish is to be with my son.”

“I _know_ thee.” Fëanor met the flash of her eyes with raised brows. “Do not tell me thou hast changed, none of us have. But I have looked at maps also and where wilt thou ride to if restlessness takes thee?”

“Nowhere, I do assure thee.” Aredhel's reply was bitten through gritted teeth. “I will remain with Lómion. I may not have changed, but I will do nothing to bring pain to those I love, and I wish to spend time with my son, for him to be accepted among his people.”

“It is too much to ask of us,” her father said grimly, “He caused the deaths of so many.”  
Glorfindel's face was impassive, molded like a golden mask. In the Void, Fingolfin had seen it burned away by the Balrog's roar of pain, seen Ecthelion fall with Gothmog into the fountain of the King, seen Turgon buried in his tower. _So many deaths..._ He dared not consider it too deeply; he loved his daughter and she loved her traitorous son.

“And nothing he does can amend that, I know,” she snapped into fierceness like a war banner. “But he can try, and if he is to be exiled then I will stay with him!”

They fell silent, the air in the room tense with heightened emotions, until Glorfindel said: “We cannot know what will come to pass. I can watch Imladris from afar and go there if need be. And thy son is not exiled, Aredhel. I believe fewer will depart from Middle-earth now, and Imladris was founded by the Noldor.”

Fëanor flung himself down on the settle. “Will they accept him?”

“They have no choice.”

“Oh?” The brilliant eyes gleamed speculatively. “Thou wilt compel them?”

“I will not have to,” Glorfindel stated. “There is a great wind blowing which is not of this earth, and none can stand against it. Think on this: No-one knew there were people in Angmar. The Dúnedain avoided it for it reeked of old evil. Carreg told me there were few orcs there, and none in his lifetime. They were further east, in the Hithaeglir and Grey Mountains. Life was hard for the people of Angmar, wolves in winter, sometimes trolls, but only _now_ have orcs returned there, fleeing from the ruin of Sauron's defeat. They could have fled to their old holds of Gundabad and Gram but they did not, for after the war _Vanimórë_ went north. Why? He did not think Elgalad was in Mirkwood, for he had ordered him to come here. Howbeit, he headed north, and when he learned that the scattered bands of Orcs were pillaging, taking off women and children he hunted them. They tried to run and Thranduil's people caught many between Mirkwood and the Ered Mithrim. Thus they veered further north and west and west until they came to Angmar.”  
He thought that they must, in some way, have felt the terrible hatred in Vanimórë's mind like a whip on their backs.

“And Carreg, though a young warrior of a hardy folk, decided to leave his home rather than fight,” Fingolfin said. “To save his people, but mostly his wife and their unborn child, and they came into Lindon and to us.”

“Threads, uncle,” Glorfindel murmured.

“Do you think the orcs in Angmar pose any danger to Imladris?” Legolas asked. “It would be far to raid, and they have no master to goad them to journey under Anor, but both Imladris and Aragorn should be made aware of them.”

“Aragorn would never claim Angmar, some ills go too deep, and no, Legolas, I think not that any would search for Imladris, but I will speak to Elrond and his son's, and word can be sent to Aragorn.” Yet even as he spoke, Glorfindel thought of Vanimórë's words on Tol Morwen: _And yet, there is something._

Something...

~~~

He was very old, for there were ways in which a Man might long outlive his allotted span, yet still be Mortal. No-one save Eru could grant deathless life to one of the Secondborn, Glorfindel was right in that, but there were those of the Ainur who could prolong the lives of Men, and had done so.

When Barad-dûr rose again, many years after the Last Alliance, the man had come to Mordor and offered his service to Sauron. He was one of the so-called Black Númenoreans', ambitious, courageous, with a cold, subtle intellect. Sauron recognized his potential and accepted him, and he had risen in favor even as his lifespan lengthened.

He did not remember how it had happened, just as he had long forgotten his name. Men did not possess Elven memory, but he did not need one. He knew he had somehow been frozen in the prime of his years, his skin taut, hair untouched by grey, knew that Sauron had granted him what all Men desired, and what the Númenorean's had never attained: deathless life. Thereafter his loyalty was absolute. He was the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, the Mouth of Sauron, for he spoke to those who were summoned to the Black Land, and the words were given to him by Sauron himself.

Yet ultimately those of evil bent are self-serving, and though the Mouth was closer to the Dark Lord than almost any living being, and had done his bidding for thousands of years, he would never have given his life for Sauron. He lived, in fact, to _live,_ to enjoy his power and pleasures.

Thus when the Men of the West marched to the Morannon, and outfaced him, a seed of doubt took root. Their souls were mightier than he had expected, for all his mockery and lies. He did not consider deserting, but he did begin to think ahead. And then, even as he felt the triumph in the Dark Lord's mind, it was overwhelmed by a sensation that almost sent him to his knees: an avalanche of horror, a dark explosion in his soul.There was a dreadful... _wrenching,_ which tore a scream from his throat, and then, far across Gorgoroth, came a thunder which drummed through earth and sky. He saw the vast lightning-veined cloud which towered over Mordor, reaching out impotently as if to grasp the armies of the West.

And he saw it dissipate into the wind.

His sense of self-preservation was as strong as his body. Shocked, bleeding, the Mouth shouldered and cut his way through the battle and escaped. By then many of the orcs and trolls were scattering in mindless fear.

His own flight was not mindless. He knew exactly where he was going. It was a way long known to him, this road hugging the skirts of the Ephel Duath, running to the old fortress of Durthang. He was escaping _into_ Mordor.

Others had fled that way, and he was almost killed. Earthquakes were shuddering through Mordor and rocks fell from the mountains, crashing onto the road, killing a group of Orcs ahead of him. None struck him, which he chose to see as more than coincidence.

Both the road and Durthang itself had been built by the Men of Númenor after the Last Alliance, but the Kings of Gondor had never truly tried to inhabit Mordor, for who would choose to dwell there? There had been no garrisons to see when Sauron returned, when the Dark Tower began to rise again. The Mouth doubted that the victorious army would venture in through the wreck of the Morannon.

He did not sorrow for his Master's demise. He saw opportunity. He could arise from these ashes and become a mighty lord. He knew power, was steeped in thousands of years of sorcery and in time he could turn his attentions to the West. That was a delicious thought, and he relished it as he made his plans in the tower chamber. Durthang was ancient, but the craft of Númenor held it stern and solid in the shadow of the mountains, and though for days after the earth shifted uneasily, the fortress stood undamaged. There were wells and supplies, and it had not been left unmanned. There was a small garrison, and survivors limped in over the following days, mostly orcs, but some men also, lean, hard warriors out of the steppes of Rhun with their distinctive tribal tattoos and long tails of dark hair. They seemed more alarmed at being in Mordor than of their defeat, and said they had been cut off from their folk in the melee before the gate, giving back and back until they were offered quarter. But they were a proud people, and could not believe the Western Men would let them live.

“Follow us, then, if you want us!” one of them had cried, and they might have been cut down with arrows as they scrambled through the devastation of fallen stone, but no weapon had been loosed.

The Mouth could still cow them. He had endless years of exacting obedience, and he wrestled with the realization that the Dark Lord was gone even as maintained order and considered his future. His deepest fear was that he would begin to feel age in his bones, that with Sauron gone, he would fall toward the death he had long been spared.  
Durthang was a grim place, but it was garrisoned mostly by Men, for it was far from Barad-dûr and Sauron knew that the darkness of his great Tower could drive men to despair. This fortress, built by Men, was less fearsome. There were some luxuries, and among these was a shaving-glass. Each morning the Mouth searched for lines on his skin, threads of grey in his hair, and none appeared. Perhaps his closeness to Sauron had steeped him in sorcery, so that like salt-corms pushed into meat, it had spread through him and preserved him. Withal, he was still a Man with the appetites of one, and they were corrupt as rotten flesh, cruel with an old intelligence that outstripped the tortures of any Orc – and there were no prisoners to provide him sport. A constant stream of slaves had entered his luxurious rooms in Barad-dûr, men, women and children. Entered and died there, their bodies fed to the Orcs, who devoured them as voraciously as wild hogs.

There _were_ men here, the garrison and the warriors of Rhun, but he meant to use them in other ways, although the tribesmen especially were tempting, with their slanted dark eyes and slender bodies. The youngest especially drew him, the sweeping tattoos over his bare shoulders and arms reminding him of another.

The Mouth was grateful beyond measure that the Slave was surely dead. Then that thought faltered, beating its wings like a dying bird, and the smile on his mouth became a grimace. Sauron had called his son back from the disaster of the Pelennor Fields to lead more warriors from Rhun to the Morannon. Since the Mouth had not glimpsed that unmistakable figure, he had to assume Vanimórë had not reached the Black Gate, although it would have been easy enough to miss reinforcements coming from the east in the dust and clangor. He questioned the tribesmen carefully, and they confirmed that no more of their kinsfolk had marched south around the shoulders of the Ered Lithui.

In the high chambers of Durthang, the Mouth drank deep from his wine-cup. There was no link binding he and Vanimórë, as there had been between he and Sauron, but he wondered uneasily _if_ Vanimórë had survived, where would he go? and would he know that the Mouth lived?

Down in the ward the tribesmen were gathered, talking and watching the sky. The ash-pall from Orodruin had been blown far into the east on brisk westerly winds, and the sky was a fierce blue over the Ephel Duath. The Mouth sensed their thoughts. They had been here over-long and wanted to return to their own lands. Mordor was pressing on their spirits.

_We will leave, when I judge the time right._

He watched the youth, who shifted uneasily, as if aware he was observed. The Mouth preferred them young, but the Slave had been different. Vanimórë, so lethal a warrior, had loathed every time he was forced into submission, and his hate and beauty were intoxicating...

_His wrists and ankles were clamped down, the tall body bent over, thighs pushed apart. The river of hair had been dragged aside, exposing his back. Every muscle was tensed. There was no give in him. Vanimórë would never permit himself to relax and spare himself pain, accept what was done to him. The Mouth forced open the tight entrance with oil-slick fingers, then his swollen erection poised, and... _ah !_ the sensation of entering that hot tightness ! Vile words spilled from his lips, becoming more unintelligible the harder and faster he thrust. Gripping the narrow hips between hard hands, the profanities scaled into howls, the Slave's body shuddering with each brutal slam..._

He preferred to take Vanimórë thus, a stallion mounting a mare, dominating, needing to believe he was mightier, more powerful, than the one he violated. He did not admit, even to himself, that he could not have faced the Slave, looked into those blazing eyes, while he took him. At whiles he was allowed to watch Vanimórë raped by Uruks or the huge wolves Sauron bred, but his countenance was ice-carved, inaccessible. The Mouth longed to see the pain and shame he knew lay under it. He never had, but every rape, every touch, every foulness was tallied in that steel-edged mind, tamped down behind the violet eyes.

Blinking, he felt the last throbs of his release, the wet seed on his fingers, and saw the youth in the ward shiver.

They had been forced to work together, he and the Slave, and on those occasions Sauron's son had the uncanny ability to shut away his emotions. It was as unnatural as his expressionless mien when he was violated by orcs and beasts. The Mouth believed that Vanimórë was mad, but if so it was a cool, clever madness. If he were not, that impassiveness denoted a will of terrifying strength.

He would never return to Mordor if he lived. ( _If_ he lived, and surely he was dead? Surely Sauron would have dragged his son's soul with him into Night?)

The Mouth waited until the sun's path became lower in the sky, sending some of the orcs to the wreck of the Morannon. They reported nothing stirred there but ash. It was as he had suspected. The victors had not entered Mordor, contenting themselves with bringing the battle to a close beyond the gates.

Telling over his garrison, he discarded the thought of taking any orcs. They were bereft of their Master's will and becoming quarrelsome, falling back into their pack mentality. They would impede his progress even under a winter sun, and spring was coming, with longer days and shorter nights. A pity, because they could be useful. The traitor Saruman had bred orcs with Mortals, and the Mouth wondered why Sauron did not.  
His master had laughed.  
 _Because I prefer to use Men,_ he had said. _And thou knowest not_ what _I have done._

The resulting Uruk-hai had been interesting however, and the Mouth intended, in the fullness of time, to conduct his own experiments.  
To quell the nascent trouble in the keep, he made examples of several Orcs and two of the Eastern men when they attempted to leave. His cruelties were legend, and the dying mewled like animals for days.

And he took the youth, telling the warriors: “Thinkest thou the Great Lord has truly gone? I tell thee he has arisen before and will again. Please me and wealth and influence may come to thee. Displease me and I will lay a curse upon thee and thy families from generation to generation. And thou wilt witness it, for I have learned from the Master how to bind the soul of a man.” He tasted their fear, for they had come to believe that the only way to avoid an eternity of slavery to the Dark was to be re-born, time after time. If that hope were were taken away, they had nothing.

The Mouth did not remember the last time when he had been forced to ensure one of his playthings lived, but the boy was pretty and would serve until others were found. He enjoyed the blanched violation on the young face, reveled in feeling the disgust and hate which took root in the shamed mind. He could imagine it was the Slave, who had never, in reality, shown him anything but the utmost contempt.  
And, because in the deeps of his soul, he was afraid of Vanimórë, the Mouth bethought him of a place, remote and dark, where Sauron's son had never been sent. It was not what he would have chosen, but it would, he thought, be safe.

Angmar.

He came there by a circuitous route, and it was while he was traveling that he felt the blast of power. It was white flame, a tearing pain in his soul, seething in his blood. He did not know what it meant, but it could only be some sign from the damned Valar. It shook him as deeply as Sauron's destruction but after pondering, he thought perhaps it was some celebration in Aman, a joyful climax of victory. This was not the Elder Days, and there was no reason for any of the Valar to set foot on Middle-earth again. As the concussion ebbed away in his mind and body, he forced himself to forget it, not entirely successfully. It hovered on the edges of consciousness like a storm ready to break.

He reached Angmar as winter drew back its skirts into Forodwaith. Fifty men had come from Durthang, there were the warriors of Rhun, and mercenaries from Dorwinion. He had promised them power and plunder and knew they saw no prospect of it in land which brooded in its cold shadows. When he found Carn Dûm inhabited by orcs who had made it a filthy warren where bodies roasted on spits and bones and excrement were piled where they fell, his simmering fury blasted through the fortress.

It seemed there were settlements of Men here still, long forgotten but the Orcs, always hungry, had been plundering them, bringing back those they captured both for food and for sport.

After his discipline had been violently laid down, the Mouth learned to his horror why the orcs had fled this far, not bolted into their hold of Gundabad, or other old caves in the Towers of Mist. The Orcs had not known who hunted them and fewer had glimpsed him, but their descriptions left the Mouth in no doubt, and for the first time in centuries he felt overwhelming terror.  
The Slave had not pursued the Orcs, though. The Mouth believed that Vanimórë would have been more concerned with aiding the captives, for he had always been brought to obedience by threats against women and children. He had not followed them. He had _not_ followed them...

He took stock of the situation then. There were women here and women meant children. There was the Elf-land of Lindon to the south, and though it was no longer a kingdom, Elves were said to dwell there still. And somewhere to the east was the hidden valley Men called Rivendell, which name Sauron had ever hated.

There were possibilities here. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mouth of Sauron is book, not film verse. He is said to have been a 'tall and evil' figure wearing a high black helm and a cloak, but his face is not described as anything like the film. I have chosen not to use that appearance for him.  
> He was said to have been a Black Númenorean who entered the service of Sauron when Barad-dûr first rose again after the Last Alliance. 'Because of his cunning he grew ever higher in the Lord's favor; and learned great sorcery, and knew much of the mind of Sauron; and he was more cruel than any orc.' The Black gate Opens: Return of the King.  
> This would make him very old, one of the very few Men, beside the Nazgûl, ( who were not, strictly speaking, *alive* ) who, through dark sorcery and presumably Sauron's powers lived far longer than the allotted lifespan of Men. It also does not state that he died in the battle of the Morannon, and I tend to think some-one that old, that experienced, and cunning would look out for himself if things started to go badly wrong.
> 
> The star constellation of Wilwarin upon Van's back, as described in the flashback was written of in the lovely and moving story: The Remembrance Of Days To Come, by Beruthiel's Cat.  
> Thank-you so much for that.


	22. ~ Tides of Fate and Love ~

  
~The next evening, Carreg was surprised to find he and his cousin the honored guests at the evening meal. Cell did not attend. Although he knew she would have denied it, she was luxuriating in the warm, spacious room, the sound of the sea and gull-call, and the company of the Elf-women who brought meals and clothes, and admired the baby just as if they were woman of Angmar coming to see a newborn.  
  
“They have not seen a baby for many generations,” Cell told him and he felt a prickle of unease, remembering Lorh's words, and the old tales that the White Demon's would steal babies and leave the women crooning over a sack of dead leaves and poison ivy. His wife watched his face, and reached out her hand.  
“One of them told me few children were born after the time they call the Watchful Peace, very long ago. They do not bear children in times of war or danger. The Dark Power was rising and their people leaving for the land across the sea. But they would not steal a Mortal child, Carreg. They would still look unaging when that child was old and grey, it would be a great grief, do you not think?”  
  
“They told you that?”  
  
“ _To love a Mortal is hard,_ ” she quoted. “Fear what they are, fear, as all Men fear that which they do not understand, but do not fear what they will do. Not to us.”  
  
“I will not.” He squeezed her fingers. “But of course I am concerned, and do you blame me? We lost so many. I can still hardly believe we are out of danger and our son is born, and healthy.”  
  
“I am stronger than you think.” Her eyes danced and he laughed and kissed her, not hurrying.  
  
“That would be impossible.” He remembered her passion on the wolf-skins of the stone hall, her flesh gleaming as she arched above him, transformed into a goddess that made the dark North her own world. They had had too little time together before they fled, too little time to love and live. And in that long flight she had been uncomplaining, though he read the weariness in her eyes. There was a strength in her like the rich earth of this land.  
  
“Go, go to the feast.” Dimples bloomed beside her mouth. “You will need your strength in days to come.”  
  
He laughed again, wondering if this spirit had always been within her, and was only now finding wings, or whether the Elven women were influencing her. He had seen that they held no inferior position here, coming and going as they chose, speaking openly to the men as equals. Remembering the carefully downcast eyes, the still line of Cell's mouth when he had first known her, seeing the bruises upon her, Carreg decided that a society where women were honored was a good one, a wise one. Cell had insights and wisdom which should be heard and considered, as had his own mother.  
“I will remind you of your words,” he kissed her again, heard her laugh as he closed the door.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Lorh was not at the feast either. Carreg was informed he was in a guarded room sleeping off an excess of wine. Perhaps he would drink himself to death, though Carreg, with a flash of anger. He had always despised Lorh for his secretive cowardly violence, but he could hardly kill him in cold blood.  
  
“He is a strong boy, your young Túrin,” Ness said, as they were lead from Cell's chamber and down the passage by a tall Elf in silvery-gray. Carreg smiled, grateful for him, for his staunch courage on their journey. They had been close since children, if there was any-one, beside his wife he had wanted to lead to safety, it was Ness.  
  
“He is. We have been blessed.”  
  
“I think we have been blessed indeed,” his cousin turned serious. “For I never would have imagined or dreamed anything like this.” The tips of his fingers brushed the wall.  
  
“Nor I, but Cell did.”  
  
“The dreaming runs in her blood.”  
  
Women with Sight were both feared and coveted in Angmar; they might foresee a storm, a wolf-attack, or plague. People came to them for other things too, medicaments and help in birthing and fertility, thus a man who married a woman who dreamed could often profit by her. It was why Lorh had kept his daughter close at hand, why he had not been concerned when he killed her mother, for Cell also had gifts. Carreg had only ever seen her cloaked figure until the night in the hall when he honored his father's memory and became chieftain. Lorh had not been happy when Carreg told him he would take her as wife, but he could not protest. By custom and law, a chieftain could choose any woman to marry or to bed.  
  
“She was less surprised than any of us,” Carreg agreed, knowing she had surely dreamed more than she had told him.  
  
“I know. Cousin,” Ness' voice dropped to a whisper. “I do not fear these folk, as I would trolls, or orcs, but we do not know them save through legend, and they are far more than those tales tell.”  
  
Carreg said, equally quietly, “You are uncomfortable?”  
  
“We are all that remains of your clan – perhaps of our people – and I hoped to marry and have children of my own one day. Whom will your son marry, or your daughter, for you will surely be blessed with more children. There is none of our own race...I feel,” he groped for words to explain. “Alone.”  
  
Carreg nodded. “So do I,” he murmured. The Elves who had spoken to him had been friendly, and the one who waited with him while Cell was giving birth had spoken of his own seven sons coming into the world. Yet he knew how his cousin felt. They were overwhelming, and that unearthly flame was behind their eyes. He had never seen such eyes, bright as the winter stars over Angmar, and as rare; cloud lingered over the land of his birth and was reluctant to leave it.  
  
He was given to understand, as he was lead into the feast-chamber, that the Elf he had spoken to was the ruler of these people. It did not surprise him, but so many looked like kings, and it seemed many were indeed princes or lords. His name was announced as Lord Carreg, and indeed he felt princely in the fine clothes. But he was a lord of nothing. He did not know if any of the people of Angmar still lived, and that disturbed him.  
  
The atmosphere was far quieter than the feasts of his hall, despite the quantity of wine, and he had to suppose that wine did not affect Elves as it did Men. They also ate slowly, without haste, and often sat back to talk.  
  
In Angmar, proximity to the chieftain was an indication of one's importance, and he and Ness were seated close to the king and the golden-haired Glorfindel. He tried to fathom the hierarchy here, and when the wine spread warmly through his veins, he was able to the similarities in faces and on insignias the Elves wore.  
  
The servants who came to clear the tables only looked like servants _because_ they were doing that task. There was no hint of servility in them. They might have simply entered the room to join the feast and decided to remove the platters, for they moved with a smooth, unhurried grace, and the Elves who were seated did not ignore them. Being a servant here, clearly carried no stigma of bondage, as it did in Angmar.  
  
Three of the Elves rose and walked soundlessly to where stools had been set in the center of the room. Two of them looked identical, save for one had black hair and the other's was dark bronze. All carried instruments: harps and a flute. Their faces became distant, as if they were listening only to the music, and it was glorious, star-song and sea-sound, running rivers and the power of sunrise. It carried the young men into a dream wherein they saw lands they had never known, white ships and tall fortresses, forests and mountains, mighty armies and through it all, the image of three gems, more brilliant than stars.  
  
He thought he had been dreaming, and realized, as the last notes ended, that there were tears on his cheeks, he who had not cried since he was a child. Ness too, raised a hand surreptitiously to his face, ostensibly to push hair from his eyes. Sorrow gripped his heart its a fist and squeezed. He knew that sorrow. He did not know how.  
  
There was no thumping of tables or cheering after the music ended. What the Elves felt went too deep for noisy acclaim. One by one they began to rise and leave the room until only a few remained. They bade Carreg and Ness goodnight with grave courtesy and both of them slept without dreaming, as if some benevolent god laid a hand of peace upon their souls.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The stallion was mist-grey, his mane and tale long and smoky. Muscles moved like honey under it's coat and he stood at least eighteen hands high. He had been a gift to Legolas from Finrod, which had been more surprising to the prince than to Glorfindel. Watching them in Tirion, Legolas had noted both the similarities and differences between them, and the profound love they bore one another.  
  
He turned at the soft thud of hooves, watching as Glorfindel slipped from Asfaloth's back. The two stallions needed time to become acquainted, thus Fána was turned out in a walled paddock, and stabled at night. All the horses brought from Valinor or Tol Eressëa also needed time to acclimatize to the cooler weathers of Ennorath, but it had not adversely affected any of them. They seemed touched by the same vigor as the returned Noldor.  
  
Asfaloth snorted and nickered, nuzzling Legolas' shoulder as if to demonstrate that he knew the prince far better than Fána, and Glorfindel slapped his shoulder. “Be nice,” he laughed. “Both of thee must become close friends.”  
  
Legolas pushed himself up onto the wall as the pair performed the ritual of assessment and acceptance. Both were proud, but it seemed that they would become companions, except when there was a mare in the offing.  
  
Glorfindel pushed affectionately at Asfaloth's head.  
“That will have to wait until we settle, my friend.”  
  
“A gift fit for a prince indeed.”  
  
The rich voice brought their heads around. Fëanor strolled towards them, and the stallions greeted him with a fanfare of trumpeting whinnies  
  
“He never stopped loving thee.”  
  
“Nor I him,” Glorfindel responded. “Which is why it is so cursed hard to show any semblance of friendship to two of thy sons.”  
  
“I can see that it is. And I would have thrown them out of Nargothrond.”  
  
“Oh, _thou_ wouldst. But Finrod offered them refuge, and friendship and they betrayed him, sought to throw down a ruling King and take his realm for their own.”  
  
“I know it, Glorfindel.” Fëanor whirled to face him. “Ambition is part of us; we desire to rule. And they were driven by the Oath. What wouldst thou have me do, other than take their actions upon myself? I do, for had I not left them alone _everything_ would have been different.”  
  
“No.” Glorfindel flung out one hand, “Thy sons are accountable for their own actions. And who knows what the Oath would have driven _thee_ to do?”  
  
Legolas watched alert, but silent. Fëanor, after a moment, pronounced: “I would have fulfilled it.”  
  
“No, dost thou not see? The Valar would never have permitted it.”  
  
Fëanor laughed shortly. “They would have tried their best to prevent me, I believe that. Well, here I am. Thou didst ask me to meet thee here. Alone.”  
  
Legolas glanced at his lover. He had wondered why Fëanor was unaccompanied. It was unusual, for there were invariably others with with him, his sons, Fingolfin, lords of his House. He was dressed simply as a servant, but one could never mistake him for anything but what he was. His presence was so intense that it drew one's attention like a fire at night. Legolas thought of the Silmaril. He would never have imagined seeing one of the fabled jewels, and it still took his breath like a punch in the gut. It snared all colors and reflected them back in greater radiance, but placed alone in a dark casket, it shone with it's own light. There was a sense of presence to it. It seemed, in fact, an extension of its creator. Looking into Fëanor's eyes, Legolas speculated, not for the first time, that whatever vision he had been under when making the Silmarils, what Fëanor had in fact created were images of his own eyes, images, in effect, of himself.  
  
And as those eyes looked at him, he was certain Fëanor knew that Glorfindel had entrusted the Silmaril to his care.  
  
  
  
  
“ _What?_ ” He had sat upright in the bed they shared when Glorfindel had told him that. “Why?”  
  
“Dost thou want it?” Glorfindel had asked him, the honeyed gloss of fulfillment fading from his face.  
  
“Want it?” Legolas had shaken his head. “No... _No._ ”  
  
“The One Ring never tempted thee either,” his lover observed, leaning on one arm. “Didst thou never wonder why?”  
  
“I did not have to wonder why.” A drift of long hair slipped over one shoulder, as Legolas leaned forward. “You touched me, a long time before the One Ring ever came close to me. There is a such isolation in power, Glorfindel. Any ruler feels it, a separation from all he must guard, all he loves. It elevates him and sets him apart. It has to be so, does it not? A king is his land. Is power the compensation given by power? Is it the only recompense, so that one wants more of the only thing one can truly have? I would not want that. I can see only a terrible loneliness in it.”  
  
It was a penetrating observation and Glorfindel nodded. He had not had the power of a Silmaril, or the One Ring, but his return to Middle-earth after rebirth had imposed an... _otherness_ on him, which people saw and moreover, expected. He had often felt isolated by it.  
“That is one of the reasons I am what I am now,” he said. “ And, too, the Silmarilli touched me, long before.”  
  
“That may be part of it, but not all.” Legolas dropped his head to Glorfindel's lap. “I cannot share _this_ with an object of power.”  
  
But later, when they were languorous and satisfied again, he sat back and said: “After all his Oath caused, and the effect the Silmarils had upon those who even named them, surely Fëanor wants it back. I can feel it myself, it is more powerful that the One Ring was.”  
  
“And more perilous,” Glorfindel agreed. “But there is something Fëanor must prove first, and he knows it. Moreover, he wishes to prove it. He was obsessed by the Silmarils, but there are other things which matter more. I would not ask thee to keep it in thy care if I believed for one moment it would endanger thee.”  
  
“I was not thinking of that,” Legolas said, although perhaps he should have. Kingdoms had fallen because of the Jewels. “Or perhaps that _is_ it. A Silmaril is here and yet Fëanor does not have you at sword-point demanding it back – neither he nor his sons.”  
  
“His sons would not, not now.” Glorfindel thought back to an afternoon in Lindon, when he had spoken of Fëanor to Gil-galad.  
 _“... the Silmarils were more than the mingled light of Telperion and Laurelin. They held his white wild-fire – they were part of him; _he_ was the true Silmaril...” _  
“His sons have their father. They have no need of anything else. As for Fëanor, there may be those who covet his creations, covet _him,_ seek to hold his fire. Morgoth never truly lusted after the Jewels, but they were the only part of Fëanor he could own. My uncle knows I will keep the Silmaril in trust. He does not like it, but he sees now that those he loves matter more than a jewel, no matter how glorious and how filled with fate.”  
  
  
  
Thinking of that conversation, Legolas was relieved to see that Fëanor's eyes had moved to Glorfindel, who was speaking softly.  
“I want Legolas to escort the people of Angmar to Imladris,” he was saying. “And for Istelion to go with him. They will leave tomorrow morning.”  
  
“That is a scant guard, Glorfindel. And why Istelion?”  
  
“Because I cannot ask any of my own people or Ecthelion. They would know Maeglin. I would trust Erestor, but he is embroiled in that quagmire thou hast sent him back into.”  
  
“I will ensure he is well recompensed for that.” Fëanor leaned back against the wall, spreading his arms. “Yes,” he murmured, “There is not a one who would not wish to kill Maeglin apart from his mother. Thinks't thou Istelion will not?”  
  
“I am very sure he will,” Glorfindel said dryly. “But I know thy grandson, and I think I can reason with him. Too, he is close to his mother, and would not wish more pain on another mother – Aredhel. There is no need for guards. Elladan and Elrohir will come to meet them at the Bridge of Mitheithel, and the only things stirring south of Angmar are the Dúnedain.”  
  
“And I am to ensure that Istelion goes alone.”  
  
“Those who need to know, do know. Unfortunately, those are the ones who are to rule and guide our people. This is not an admirable position for either of us to be in.”  
  
“A thorny situation,” Fëanor agreed. “I will ensure Istelion goes unaccompanied – but I have a condition.”  
  
“A condition,” Glorfindel repeated flatly. “Uncle, thou wilt do this anyway. What is the condition?”  
  
Fëanor turned to Legolas. “Tell me how thou didst seduce Glorfindel.” His swift smile held mischief. “I do not need the details, delicious though I am certain they are. But thou wert very young, and knew of the Laws which forbade it. Glorfindel had been virtuous for a long time, because he knew full-well what punishment awaited any who broke those laws. He is not the kind who would not care, would take out of lust and carry that weight of guilt on his soul.”  
  
Glorfindel cast up his eyes, but without any real asperity. Legolas looked at him and said: “No. He is not.”  
  
“It was different before,” Fëanor's jaw muscles tightened. “We knew the Laws, but the Valar did nothing in Aman when we broke them, and I believed they did not truly care – or rather, I did not care what that Valar thought. But Glorfindel _knew_ the punishment when he was reborn.”  
  
Legolas let out a cramped breath. “It was I who did not really believe in that it could be wrong. Nor did my father.”  
  
“He did not witness Manwë's doom on Gil-galad's soul,” Glorfindel said. “The dead had been borne away and there was a cloudburst, we were within a wall of water. Only a few of us heard. As we were meant to. But others came to know. Whether they believed it or not depended much on whether they wanted to. After the War of Wrath, the Valar seemed to forget Middle-earth, why would one come to us after so long? And why dost thou wish to know this?”  
  
“Because I know how wholly irresistible innocence can be. Thou wert innocent thyself, when I took thee.” Fëanor's eyes narrowed as he looked back into time. Legolas glanced quickly at Glorfindel who lifted a hand, palm up. “I watched thee grow, golden and tall, and even among thy kin, _different._ I recognized what roused thy desire, because I knew it in myself, and I was damned angry when Arafinwë did not support thee.”  
  
“He knew more than was comfortable for him,” Glorfindel said. “And he could not accept it. Many could not.”  
  
“Nevertheless.”  
  
“Yes, nevertheless. And I, in my youthful arrogance, walked away.”  
  
“I wanted thee to come to me.”  
  
“And I feared what I saw in thee.”  
  
“Didst thou?” Fëanor asked Legolas. “Didst thou fear Glorfindel?”  
  
Legolas hesitated a long moment, thinking, then said: “In a way, yes. But I... _wanted._ ”  
  
  
  
His first sight of fabled Imladris, set like a jewel amidst waters, pines and hills, had been smudged by his grief. He was held in the fist of shock and he felt, despite the presence of his own people, utterly alone. Elrond, as noble and fair as tales had him, was grave and gentle. His wife, Celebrian and their tall sons were kind and courteous, but he only saw what was _not there._ His mother. There was a void in his world.  
  
And he knew his father knew of her death, would have known when it happened. He could feel Thranduil, and it amplified his own loss. They shared, but it did not ease them. Legolas could not sleep, yet when he walked, he did not know where he went. How else to explain that he had found himself, many days after his arrival, following a narrow path up to small shelf of land hidden from the great house? He had not noticed it before, but later he realized why he had been drawn there. Sorrow lay like sunlight on the grass and murmured in the waterfall. Like Elgalad, many years later, Legolas found himself stopped by the gleam of white against the greensward.  
  
 _A grave..._  
  
His education had touched little on the Quenya tongue, for Thranduil preserved a flinty antipathy for the Noldor. Oropher had loved Doriath and mourned it's ruin. But Thranduil was also proud, and he would not have it said that either he nor his scholars were ignorant of the High Tongue, precisely because he knew that this was the view of many. Legolas had learned a little, and this name, anyhow, he had seen written on scrolls and in books.  
  
 _Gil-galad._  
  
He was shaken; there were other sorrows here, and they both melded with his and scored fresh wounds. He felt, in the cool night, the hot rush of tears down his face. A sound came from his throat, and it was echoed by another. A hand touched his arm.  
  
“Prince Legolas.”  
  
Blinking desperately, he found himself looking into the face of the bronze-haired _Golodh._ That hair and he who bore it was either notorious or legendary, depending on one's kin. He was the ill-gotten son of Maglor Fëanorion. That was the most common tale, at least. Legolas tried to think of what he had heard from his father, but his mind was slapped blank with shock.  
  
“I am sorry. I am intruding?” His voice sounded as if it came from another person.  
  
“No, Prince Legolas.”  
  
“I did not know he was buried here...”  
  
The Fëanorion's words broken by huskiness as if he, too, had been weeping, but Legolas could not imagine that sculpted face displaying tears.  
“Wilt thou not come with me, we are concerned for thee.”  
  
“Why?” Legolas asked, strained and high. “Where can I go? What can I do? My mother is dead, _what else can happen?”_  
  
He was shaking as he allowed Tindómion to lead him back down the path. Ahead of him, the end wing of the house showed lights, and as he watched Glorfindel stepped out onto his balcony, haloed in gold. His hair streamed, glittering. His face was in shadow but Legolas could see the sheen of his eyes, an inner light and reflexively, he stopped. Foolish, foolish to think any-one could have saved his mother, her neck had been crushed – and yet he had believed beyond doubt that Glorfindel could bring her soul back from death. It was impossible, but still he felt cheated. He remembered vividly hitting out against his inner scream of denial.  
 _I struck Glorfindel..._  
Tindómion paused too, hand still resting on Legolas' back, and he spoke in Quenya. Glorfindel nodded and stepped down from the balcony. He was very tall, powerful as a sunrise, and seemingly as unapproachable.  
  
Later, when Thranduil said Glorfindel must have done _something,_ Legolas could say with perfect truth that Glorfindel had said nothing, done nothing to draw him. It was beyond speech, beyond expression by word or body. The love hit him with the force of a river, driving through the frozen isolation of grief. It was vast and strong, potent as his first sip of Dorwinion Red Harvest. He threw himself into it, into Glorfindel's arms and felt them close around him. His head buried into the the strong shoulder, his tears wet the warm flesh where the shirt was loosed at the throat and he tasted salt.  
  
Later he slept for the first time since arriving in Imladris.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“He did not touch me.” Legolas looked at Fëanor, who lifted his brows, but the accompanying smile was not disbelieving or mocking.  
“He held me. I wept for a long time, and slept many hours. In his arms, in his bed, but he did not touch me.”  
  
“I wager he wanted to.”  
  
“He hid it well.”  
  
“That must have been hard for him.”  
  
“I _am_ here,” Glorfindel pointed out. “And yes it was.”  
  
“Thou hast more will-power than I.” Fëanor threw him a glittering smile.  
  
“No uncle, more compunction. Even were there no laws to the contrary still I would have balked at taking one so young, and from another realm. The son of its king, who had no reason to love the Noldor. How could I know what was a desire for comfort, and what was _desire?_ ”  
  
“Does the last matter? Comfort can take many forms.”  
  
“It was both,” Legolas interposed. “at the beginning, but more than anything, it was powerful. I did not fight it. I did not even try to.”  
  
“So, what didst thou do?”  
  
Glorfindel raised a hand. “Not now. There is much to do.” And he did not wish Fëanor to dwell on the image of Legolas in bed.  
  
“Another time, then,” Fëanor assented with a look which was all bright teasing.  
  
“We are leaving at the same time. It will look as if all of us are traveling to Imladris, but Aredhel and I will turn back along the coast. Perhaps thou couldst take thy sons north into Forlindon tomorrow.”  
  
His uncle nodded. “Do not concern thyself. I will ensure Istelion goes alone, and that no-one is likely to encounter Aredhel and Maeglin.” But the laughter had vanished from his eyes, and now they were frightening. Rage lay behind the barrier Fëanor had forced himself to erect for Aredhel's sake. Glorfindel knew what he was thinking: _One of the House of Finwë made a bargain with Morgoth._  
  
“Why did he wish to know?” Legolas asked, as Fëanor walked away.  
  
“It is not prurient curiosity, not with him. He seeks always to understand. He always believed he knew me. And he has never forgiven me for refusing to follow him when he took the Swan Ships.”  
  
“Your honor would have been compromised.” Legolas jumped to the grass.  
  
“That would not matter to him. He does not forgive me.”  
  
“Did he think that you should have followed him because you were lovers?”  
  
“Lovers and kin. He expected loyalty, Legolas. He does not care, even now, that many dislike him at the least.”  
  
“Yes, he is arrogant.”  
  
“We all are.” Glorfindel said. “And he more than any. He must earn loyalty now; more, he must earn trust. And what we are doing now...”  
  
“Is the right thing. It has to be. Would you not do it this way?” Legolas leaned a shoulder against him.  
  
“Some-one,” Glorfindel murmured, “has an enormous sense of irony. I would appreciate it more if this situation were not so damnably volatile.” ~  
  
  
  
~~~ 

~~~


	23. ~ A Mother's Love, A Mother's Hate ~

  
~The sea breathed in, left a lacework of silver under the cloud-chased moon.  
The ship's lamps had been covered, though it's white timbers gleamed as it drifted on the firth, but this cove lay far down the coast from Mithlond and there were only two witnesses. One stood at the base of the green cliff, the other waited on the strip of shore, tall and still.  
The soft dip and plash of oars sounded across the water, then the keel ground on shingle.

Aredhel's arms were crossed, her hands gripping her elbows tightly as one of the crew rose, jumped out, then turned to give the small craft a push back into deeper the water. The sailors began to row back to the ship without a word.

The moon lit Maeglin's face as he turned and there was a moment when he paused, then walked forward again, more quickly, until he had his mother in his arms.

She was trembling, he felt it, she who never showed fear, and this was not fear, he knew. She smelled of the white valley-lily, and at the familiar fragrance he found that he too was shaking.

_I could not speak of her death, some hurts cut into the bone._

Turgon's warriors had taken Eöl's sword and bow, but they had not searched him, because no-one had ever come to Gondolin, and what threat could one Sinda Elf be?  
Their arrogance had proved fatal.

_I knew he considered me a traitor from the moment I began asking my mother of her people, of Gondolin – how cruelly apt that I was believed one long before I proved one!_

Even so, Maeglin had never believed Eöl would harm him. He spoke with contempt of the Golodhrim kinslayers, saying that their coming would rouse the Enemy, but that was not what lay at the heart of his hatred. As he held Aredhel against him, Maeglin remembered when he had first realized that Eöl's possessive love was souring into jealousy, and why. At times she spoke of Fëanor, creator of the Silmarilli, those jewels that held fate in their perilous beauty, an unmatchable work by a kinslayer, a traitor to his own kin, a flawed, magnificent genius. Aredhel was niece to him, a friend to his sons and she smiled when she said their names. She was Finwion, and the greatest of that clan had made something Eöl, brilliant himself, never would.

The jealousy put forth seeds which grew to strangle his love like ivy. He decreed that neither his wife nor son speak of Gondolin or the Noldor, for in Maeglin's eyes and face he could see the admiration which should have been for himself. (And there was a sadness there which Maeglin had long buried.) But he could not dictate his own heart and where it lead him.

_And I came to know the bitter jealousy that drove my father to murder, and I went to the same death as he..._

“Lómion.” His mother's voice came on a choke, and then she drew back and hit him. She was a strong woman, and all the weight of her anger was behind the blow.

“My brother. My _people._ ” The words vibrated on the soft, salty air. “How couldst thou so betray thy very blood?” Again she struck him, this time clenching her hand into a fist. And he let her, feeling the trickle of blood down his chin. He did not move or speak until she dropped her hand, tears shining on her cheeks. Her head was lifted high, and he saw the glint of gems in it. Even when she wept she did not abandon one whit of her pride.

“Mother,” he whispered and then she loosed one cry and threw herself back into his arms.  
“I need thy forgiveness.”  
It was hard to say. He had to force it through the wall of his own pride, and the fullness in his throat.

“Ah, Lómion,” she murmured. “It is not _my_ forgiveness thou needst!”

Glorfindel watched them as they walked up the steep goat-path. Maeglin reaching for Aredhel's hand, and she, who needed none to guide her, accepted it, and they came to him. He gestured to the horses.

“Come then,” he said coolly.

  
_If the Noldor knew that I was leading the most infamous traitor of our people to dwell with the kin of Eärendil, and that Fëanor and Fingolfin knew of it, their faith in me would crumble to dust, and their distrust of their new king be assured._

_Thou art wise to tell but few, perhaps such secrecy will not be necessary forever._

It was one of the more wondrous aspects of his elevation in power, this ease of communication: to hear Finrod's voice from Valinor, so clear and so close that his brother might have been riding beside him.

_Perhaps. It is not given to me to know this future, or not yet._

_It is thy duty to lead the Noldor to their new lands, to see them free there, at peace._

_Peace, ah, brother, of the many futures I might guess at, a peaceful one seems the least likely._ He heard Finrod laugh and sent: _I wish thou wert here._

_Not yet, my dear, that would not add to the peace, I assure thee._

Glorfindel thought of Celegorm and Curufin and wondered once again why he was chosen for this, to guide and watch over the Noldor, and his actions be dictated by his duties. He gave Celegorm credit for coming to him to ask about the sons of Dior, but when he thought of Finrod and his death, he had to batten down murderous rage.

Finrod had always been able to sense his feelings.  
_I cannot forgive._

 _Nor can I,_ Glorfindel admitted.

~~~

For the first time since his childhood in Gondolin, Erestor wanted to flee. He sat with his back to the ships rail and let the night air soothe his fretted temper.

It had been a simple enough matter to convince Rosriel that Fëanor had made inappropriate gestures toward him and that he, Erestor, had been forced to resign his position as councilor and leave. She, it was clear, had been expecting it. Borniven's eyes had narrowed, however. He thought he knew Erestor, and indeed he had, throughout the Second Age, but he had not known him well enough to see Erestor's desire for other men. Had the situation not been serious, Erestor would have laughed at the frisson which ran through him at the words _'inappropriate gestures'._

“It apparently did not disturb thee seeing Glorfindel and his wood-Elf in Imladris,” Borniven snapped.

“Seeing a public display of affection is not the same as a being the recipient of a private one,” Erestor retorted, staring the other down with guiltless eyes. And he did not feel guilt, there was no dissimulation there.

“It does not surprise me at all that the mad one should importune thee, perhaps it has shown thee that such things are insupportable,” Rosriel said. “I could even thank him for that. But I do not forget thy treachery, Erestor. Thou wilt have to prove thyself to me.”

He did have to strive for control there, for the cool mask that Elrond's Chief Councilor could assume when he wished. He thought of his own mother. He had taken a calculated risk and informed her of what was happening, for he trusted her implicitly, but impressed upon her the importance of saying nothing, even to her kin. There were some who might suspect, he knew, but no words need be said.

“No, wait, my lady, this is too...” Borniven stepped forward. “Did he have thee?”

“ _What...?_ ” Erestor contrived to look outraged. Why did these two linger so long on matters they considered filthy? “I accepted the situation between Glorfindel and Legolas Thranduilion in Imladris, I did not join them in their bedchamber!” His flush could, he thought, be taken for anger and embarrassment both.

“Thou wert also a friend and fellow warrior of Maglor's misbegotten son!”

“Gil-galad was dead, and naturally we were warriors together. Glorfindel and Tindómion trained me. Imladris was not Lindon, Borniven, it behooved us all to work together.”

“Nevertheless, I cannot trust this sudden change of heart.”

“Fëanor tried to seduce me,” Erestor said flatly, and looked at Rosriel. “And after yesterday...” He could not bring himself to say that he felt she had been treated discourteously. The lie would not pass his lips, not even for Fëanor. He could hardly bear to look at her, had wondered how he would have felt, had his mother looked at him, spoke to him as Rosriel had Gil-galad.

But he was spared elaborating. She said, “They tried to shame me, but shamed no-one but themselves. They will not go unpunished.” Crossing to Erestor's side, she flicked her fingers at Borniven. “He has been mislead, but look, he returned to us with due humility.”

Erestor locked his jaw.

“My lady, there is a possibility he is a spy for them. He has been in Imladris for an Age!”

And at that, Erestor laughed.  
“Borniven,” he shook his head, truly a little amused now. “Thou hast forgotten something.” At the other's look of cold inquiry he went on: “Glorfindel. He could certainly read the thoughts in thy minds, and would, if he believed there were cause. He may be doing so. There is no need for any-one to spy.”

Rosriel and Borniven stared at one another and then the woman laughed dismissively.

“I do not believe he has those powers. I did not see him made Vala, but _they_ seem to believe it.”

Scarcely concealing his irritation Erestor moved smoothly away from her.  
“Thou hast two choices, I can go, or I can stay and aid thee.”  
He hoped that Borniven would distrust him sufficiently enough to sway Rosriel, but Fëanor wanted him here. It was a game to him, a game of politics and power, but it was more than that, because it impinged directly on his eldest son and Fingon.  
Erestor had thought that Fëanor could be self-obsessed to an insufferable degree, but in fact he loved too fiercely to be wholly selfish. His greatest contempt was held for Manwë, Námo and Varda, who had laid the laws before all those who came to Aman, but on Middle-earth Rosriel had single-handedly poisoned the minds of thousands, made the love of Maedhros and Fingon sound filthy. She was a public figure and her voice was loud.

Erestor remembered the toxic glory of Gil-galad's court. Now he found himself experiencing it from the other side and was appalled. He would have pitied a woman driven mad by unrequited love, but not a woman who could so hate a son who had died and been sent to the Void.

 _“She was raised to hate the Fëanorions,”_ Glorfindel had told him that morning. _“To think herself better than they, to draw Fingon from Maedhros. When she could not, she simply hated them the more. Some people need to hate, for they are hollow within.”_

 _As I was,_ thought Erestor now, _But surely never so hollow I could not love my own child._

None of his thoughts showed in his eyes as he waited, watching two people he realized he despised, as he had despised himself for a long time.  
“I am proud of the service I gave to Elrond,” he said. “Both in peace and in war. I hoped to render the same to our new king, but I believe he will go too far.”

“He has already gone too far,” Rosriel snapped. “He has not been crowned king, and I do not recognize him as our king.”

 _He is already our High King,_ Erestor thought, but he said: “Perhaps - when you _trust_ me,” he leaned on the word. “Thou wilt tell me thy plans, since it is clear to me that Fingon does not recognize thee as his wife, Rosriel.”

She took a step toward him, her hand raising, fingers curling into a fist.  
“What he wants does not matter, we were joined by the Laws!”

And so it went on far into the night, until Erestor went to the small cabin appointed him. It was beautifully built, larger than he had expected, the wood polished and gleaming. He did not sleep though, feeling the gentle rock of the ship, thinking, wanting more than anything to walk out. It was close to dawn when Borniven, without ceremony opened the door and jerked his head.

Rosriel sat upright in a high-backed chair, still dressed, jewels glinting. Her eyes were stretched wide, her hands gripping the arm-rests so hard the blood had been driven from the skin. She breathed as if aroused, nostrils flaring, panting, oblivious to Borniven's questions, his touch on her back.

And then Erestor could not see her, or the cabin. He was watching a battlefield, smelling the blood, seeing tattered banners streaming, blue-and-silver, heard the clamor of war, which once heard could never be forgotten. On reflex his hand flashed to where a sword would hang at his side, he stepped forward.  
The warrior who stood before the monstrous Balrog looked like Gil-galad.  
_Not Gil-galad. His father._  
He watched as the two met, the High King, and the fire-demon.  
_“Little King. I will make a necklet of thy charred bones, little King!”_  
It broke his heart, the beauty, the valor, and the dreadful end. And there, at the end, he felt Glorfindel's presence, shoring him up.  
_If they were to see this and not thee, they would suspect something was amiss._

He understood, and refused the support. He had not witnessed Fingon's death, very few had, but he had called it justice, called it fitting.

Fingon was surrounded by dark fire, his arms pinned to his side by a whip, and his face blazed as he looked up, and said: _“A Noldo will slay thee yet, thou bastard slave of Morgoth!”_

The Balrog's great black axe came down, there was a flash of flame and pain...pain driving into Erestor's skull like a dagger of fire, and then rain, darkness, and a young voice screaming: _Father!_

Another image exploded brutally into his mind: a harsh landscape of littered rock rising up to a fuming mountain. _Mordor...Orodruin..._ Gil-galad confronting Sauron alone, as if he courted death. There were no warriors near him to prevent the hurled spear which struck his back, or the troll-wielded mace that Erestor _felt_ strike him with devastating force. He saw Gil-galad fall, watched Sauron's armored foot place itself upon his ribcage, saw the pressure that snapped the bones beneath the breastplate. Some-one was crying out in his mind, and the anguish was raw as an acid-burn.  
_No! Gil!_  
Tindómion.

The vision cast him out like a wave, and he found he had come up against the wall of the cabin. There was the sound of vomiting, and he gathered himself, breathing deeply, that last cry echoed in his mind. It had talons. Slowly it faded into the cry of a lone gull.

_I never gloated at that death._

_I know,_ Glorfindel's mind-tone was subdued.

 _Oh, Eru,_ Erestor closed his eyes. There was pressure on his chest. Fingon, Gil-galad...their deaths horrific, delivered with contempt, by Gothmog, by Sauron, who had wanted to break their courage, their beauty, show them that in the end, they were nothing.  
_But they failed._

Rosriel was bent over a basin, retching. Borniven looked bleached and sick about the eyes. They had never seen the realities of battle. For just one moment, Erestor thought that the bloody images would reach them, would burn clean their agelong hate. For who could not mourn at such endings?  
There was a clatter as Borniven poured wine. Rosriel sank onto a chair wiping her mouth, took the winecup in both hands and swallowed deeply.

“Who did this?” Borniven flung open the door and called. A woman hurried into the cabin and under a flurry of orders took away the basin, throwing a wide-eyed look at Rosriel.  
Erestor said, through the swelling of his throat, “Who but a Vala would be able to?”

“How _dare he?_ ” Rosriel's face began to suffuse with bright blood. She drank again and then she threw back her head and laughed, the sound jangling, discordant. “Does he think – do they think – that I have not imagined far worse than that for my husband and my son? _Do they think I care?_ ”

“Theirs were not easy deaths.” Erestor clutched at his temper with a hard hand.

“Foul deaths, just as their lives were foul,” Borniven's voice was thin with shock, and something else was there, relief, perhaps, that he had never had to see war, save in Gondolin.

“It would be better for the both of thee to at least enact some respect,” Erestor told them, pushing past Borniven to get wine for himself. “Whatever they were, they died hard.”

Rosriel's eyes glittered. A pitying smile turned up her mouth.  
“Thou hast learned to lie as one of Elrond's councilors, no doubt. I need no such recourse. I stand for what is right, Erestor, what is good and natural. My husband died, my son died, so did many others over the long years. They were made weak by their vices, and betrayed all their people to ruin!”

“Lady, thou wert sick, and so,” he looked at his erstwhile friend, “wert thou. Why, if thou feelest naught? Fingon and thy son and many others died facing the Dark. They were fighting for their people.” He knew there was too much anger in his words. He must go carefully, but it was difficult. “I have seen battle! Do not demean it.”

“War is disgusting, Erestor! Any brute orc can take lives! How dare they make me see such filth?”

“It is not for a lady's eyes,” Borniven agreed and Erestor knew a desire to strike him across the face, thinking of his mother in Gondolin, and so many other women who had died not been trained for war, but who had died violently.

_I cannot endure one more moment of this!_

“If thou art determined to follow that road it will be a hard one. I council a less direct and strident approach.”

“I see thou hast some unlearning to do.” She gestured. “Leave me. We will speak on the morrow.”

Erestor could hardly summon a bow. They began talking as soon as he had left the cabin. He could hear their voices through the door.  
A gust of cool air cleansed him as he went to the rail, lifting his face to the wind. The gentle rock of the ship at it's moorings, the toll of the warning bell out in the channel, were soothing. He ran his hands back through his hair, and thought that he had long been ashamed of his earlier actions, but now was doubly so. The deaths he had witnessed seemed the distillation of the doom which had been laid upon the Eldar.

_Glorfindel. I am sorry._

_I know, my friend, but they are not._

_I never expected that reaction, even from them._

_It makes no difference, Erestor. Fëanor will deal with the matter as soon as we reach New Cuiviénen._

_They must be mad. **I** must have been mad. _ Erestor smacked a hand against the rail and then sat, leaning back.

_Not mad, but jealous, infected by hatred, it is like a disease that spreads among Men, a plague, but it makes me wonder..._

Erestor watched the gray clouds swim above his head.

_What?_

_Is it them? Or is some-one influencing them?_

_Who?_

_A Vala, if any-one, and rather unfortunately, no Vala can read the mind of another – unless permitted to._ ~

~~~


	24. ~ Necessities of Fate ~

  
The west wind quested over the land, pressing on their backs, urging them on. The frost and fog had cleared, and to the north the mountain range marched, its peaks lost under grey cloud. Vanimórë was aware of another change in the weather coming: a great, slow-moving wheel of calm air which would bring clear days and frost-locked nights.  
Elgalad had watched Vanimórë as they traveled. Sometimes their eyes would meet in a wordless smile, but often Vanimórë seemed distracted, turning his head back, looking north and east, as if catching a faint scent.

“My lord?” Elgalad asked, at last. “Is something w-wrong?”

“I do not know,” Vanimórë murmured.

“I thought that th-thou wouldst know everything, n-now?”

Vanimórë smiled, and put an arm about his shoulders.  
“Not everything, and I would not wish to. Perhaps I am intrigued with what will come to pass with young Túrin.”

“As am I.” Elgalad slipped one arm about the taut waist.

“We will come north again I am too intrigued not to.” Feeling the cool hair against his face eased that strange nagging feeling that had plagued him, replaced it with an uncomplicated desire. Uncomplicated, yet he _had_ to complicate it. _It would have to be some-one innocent enough to love without question, some-one I cannot afford to possess,_ he thought with a flash of anger that brought Elgalad's head up.

“It is nothing,” he said, imagining what he could do with that wonderful body, that generous love.

Elgalad smiled, but with a tinge of doubt. “Is all w-well in the Havens?”

“As well as it can be, considering those who are there. No, it is not the Haven's.”

Evening was drawing in, and Vanimórë lead Elgalad away from the empty road to a stand of hawthorns. To their north the Dunland fells brooded in sullen silence. Elgalad had shot a grouse that morning, still plump from the ripe golden autumn and the fat oozed through the skin as he turned it. The night breathed over them and the fire was warm and lively in the lonely land. They ate, and Elgalad spread out the skin he slept on, felt the alert, calm presence beside him.

It was some internal change within his companion that brought Elgalad instantly awake. Vanimórë had kept the fire fed, but the flames were slapped aslant by a rising wind. His face was in shadow, but Elgalad saw tautness in the shoulders, the hands linked about one knee.

“What is it?”

Vanimórë reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.  
“Glorfindel showed Gil-galad's mother and the lackey who runs with her Fingon's death. Her husband's death and her son's. It seems they were not hard or protracted enough.” He rose and the fire sprang upward, glaring. “I understand hate very well, when it is deserved.”

Elgalad moved to him and was drawn into a fierce embrace.  
“Thine own mother would love thee, no matter what thou didst, whom thou didst love.” Vanimórë's tone was hard. “Aredhel, whose son betrayed Gondolin, loves him.”

“A-and thine...” Elgalad asserted vehemently, then stopped short, teetering on the edge of unfamiliar ground. The hold on him tightened, then loosed.

“I do not know.”

“Of c-course she w-would my l-lord !”

Vanimórë turned and looked into the western night.  
“Morgoth kept her alive, in madness and grief. Sauron made himself appear as her beloved husband, but she must have known it was not he. I know she rests in the Gardens of Lórien. I cannot see how she could love children begotten on her in such a way. There are some things, Meluion, I cannot think of.”

“The manner of thy birth w-was is n-not thy blame to shoulder,” Elgalad insisted. Then, “I th-thought of thee, all the t-time.”

“I know.” Vanimórë touched the beautiful face gently. “But when there is no hope, one must not hope. I could have gone mad on that path. Thy love was dangerous to me. And so it was with the woman who bore me and my sister. I could not think of them, either. And now I must leave them in better hands, kinder ones.”

“Knowest thou...if my m-mother is h-happy?” Elgalad asked, a breath in the greater bluster of the wind.

“Yes, and thy father. But there will ever be an absence in their lives.” After a pause, Vanimórë said softly, “Thou couldst go the Valinor, see them, live as their son, and know them.” _I could give thee up, I think I will regret it if I do not...and yet, it is true that thou art a part of me._

Elgalad was silent for long heartbeats. He had not heard Vanimórë's last, private thoughts. “If th-they are happy...” he began and then “Thou wert my f-father and mother, and I was b-born for thee. I do n-not want to l-leave thee.”

“Once before thou didst say, _I love thee! I was born for thee,_ and I did not believe it.”

“I knew it w-was true, my l-lord.”

“It is true,” Vanimórë affirmed. “But then I could not see it.No,” he corrected himself, his hands settling on Elgalad's shoulders, drawing him forward. “I could not afford to believe it. I had to hope thou wouldst forget me.”

“Didst thou n-never think of m-me?”

“I tried not to,” the words slipped out against silvery hair.“But thou wert always there, within me.”

“I w-will always be with th-thee !” Elgalad sank into him. “I still c-cannot believe thou art c-close enough for me to h-hold!” His grip was fierce, powerful, so different from the youth Vanimórë had left on the borders of Mirkwood long ago.

“I cannot either, my dear,” he admitted with perfect truth. “I cannot either.”  
The feeling that jabbed at him out of the north vanished as he held Elgalad in the tumbling darkness of the winter night.

~~~

The covered wagon ran smoothly enough over the ghost of the old east-west road. Men had laid it with the craft of Númenor, but long years had covered it with grass and many winters had pitted the stone. The mild weather had given way to a time of windless days and frosty nights which turned the ground iron-hard, and there was no mud to mire the wheels. Ness drove, a sullen Lorh beside him, the older man taking frequent drinks from a skin of mead which resulted in him dozing through the afternoon. He would not look at the Elves, and muttered under his breath, but other than that, remained mute. Cell and the child sat within the wagon resting on many furs. Carreg rode close beside her. Legolas and Tindómion alternated riding ahead to pick out the smoothest way, or remove large stones from the trackway. Glorfindel had told them that Elladan and Elrohir would meet them at the Last Bridge. Two of Círdan's folk had come with them to drive the wagon back when it could go no further.

Glorfindel had spoken to Carreg, Cell and Ness of Imladris and what part it had played in the history of the Dúnedain, from whom the people of Angmar were sprung. Cell knew more of that history than the men, it was, she said, preserved by the women, passing from mouth to mouth down the long years since the wars and before. And there were fragments of even more ancient tales embedded in her mind, it was why she had not been afraid of the Elves.

“Sometimes the future shows itself to thee,” Glorfindel had observed, in her chamber where she sat, holding the swaddled child. “And at times, the past.”

“Yes, lord,” she responded. “Or possible futures. Perhaps Carreg would not have hearkened to me, the orcs might have come sooner, or the winter been harsher. We are taught, we women, to heed our dreams if there is danger in them, but also to know that dreams can lead us astray.”

“Very wise,” he replied with a smile, thinking of Tuor, lead to Vinyamar. “But I think, as thou dost, that thou wert meant to come here.”  
He said nothing to her of Túrin. Already she knew that there was something unique about her child, more unique than even the wonder of a new, healthy baby brought into the world. One day she would know the full tale, but for now, he thought, let her child and husband and their new life be her only concerns.

~~~

They had halted for the night, and despite Glorfindel's assurance that the land was safe, both Tindómion and Legolas had been warriors too long to entirely relax. The Men were also alert and watchful, but all they saw or heard were the foxes and falcons hunting, the tussle of finches in the hawthorns, where brittle brown leaves still stubbornly clung.

 _He knows something is amiss._ Legolas cast another glance at Tindómion. He had agreed to make this journey willingly. In fact, he had seemed almost eager, as if he needed to get out from the overwhelming presence of the Fëanorions' for a time. And he somehow knew there was something being hidden from him. He said nothing, but now and then looked at Legolas as if on the verge of questioning him. Elladan and Elrohir gleaming on the Bridge of Mitheithil, provided a leavening, greeting the Men and Cell courteously, and speaking to them of the Dúnedain. But they too, Legolas surmised, guessed there was something more here than refugees brought to a safe haven. Glorfindel had informed Elrond of them, but nothing more. He was going to drop Maeglin and Túrin on Imladris like a thunderclap. The Finwean sense of drama, Legolas wondered, or a way of literally making it impossible for Elrond and his son's to refuse?

There came a point where the wagon could not be used. From here, Elves would porter any goods brought from Lindon, although Imladris had long been self sufficient. After some conversation with the women, it had been ruled that whatever Cell said, she would not be ready to ride a horse for some weeks. They had considered this, for clearly she should not walk from the Bridge, and Elrond had solved the problem by having a litter built. When Cell saw it, waiting beyond the bridge, she laughed and cast a look at her husband as she settled into the down filled cushions, and was tucked deep in furs.

Four Elves of Imladris, making nothing of the weight, carried her from there. The weather remained clear for the duration of the journey, and when they came to the valley the sun dazzled in the waterfalls and glinted from the windows of the great house.

Carreg had drawn aside the litter's curtains, and Cell, looking out breathed, “It is beautiful.”  
Her husband, gazing at it's position, knowing he would never have found it had he not been guided, nodded. “And safe.”

“Safe. Trust a man,” Cell's voice held rue, “to not see what is right before his eyes. Look at the water. Our boy will have to be taught to swim.”

Her words drew a laugh from the twins. “We all learned that young, lady. All children are curious. There are some calm backwaters where it is safe to learn.”

Elrond had had chambers prepared in a wing of the house, one next to the other. Elladan and Elrohir guided them there immediately, so they might rest and settle in. Once that was done, Elrond would formally greet them.

“But for now,” Elladan said, “this is your home. Estel, now Elessar, king of Gondor and Arnor was raised here, and in all his many travels always came back here and regarded it as his home. We hope you will.”

“Is it true we may see other Men, sir?” Ness asked. “And would they accept us?”

“Men still live in Arnor, although not many,” Elladan said. “Why would they not accept you? Your ancestors fell under the sway of Angmar, but are you evil? Do you not care for one another, look after each other on your journey?”

“It was my duty,” Carreg flushed, and his cousin agreed.

“And there was no other reason?” Elrohir asked, smiling.

Elrond came then, and welcomed them kindly. His sons would help to familiarize them with the valley and it's surrounding, he told them. Later he said to Legolas and Tindómion he said that a watch would be kept on Lorh, a sot and a coward, but unless he grew violent, they could not take any further action against him.

“Carreg is concerned about the fate of the people of Angmar,” Legolas said.

“I am sorry for that,” Elrond responded quietly. “But I think it likely, from what I have learned, that living in scattered homesteads, they are dead. And better dead than what could happen to them.”  
The twins flashed a glance at one another. “However, some may have escaped as Carreg did. And they would no doubt try to come south.”

“We could send out patrols,” Elladan suggested. “And leave word with the Dúnedain.”

“Do that,” his father agreed. “But be careful. We do not have the force here to launch an attack upon Angmar.”

Again the brothers shared a look, their faces stony, and Elrond said sternly, “I should not have to tell you that when I am gone, Imladris is yours to protect.”

“No,” Elrohir replied. “We know our duties.” He reached out to grip his twin's tense forearm. “We will send out patrols however, in hope than any escapees may have made their way east and south. The winter will end early, some, at least, may have survived.”

Elrond said nothing more, turning to Legolas.  
“Glorfindel is following you,” he stated, and the prince strove to keep his expression calm. It was not easy, for the Noldor were not the only Elves who had reason to hate Maeglin. Glorfindel, when Legolas had asked long ago, had spoke of his own death with brevity, but those who had witnessed it, such as Erestor and Fanari, told a very different tale. Glorfindel's face had been burned away, he had been blind when he fell to his death, blind and burning. It was not something Legolas could consider without pain and anger.

“Yes,” he answered. “He had something to attend to.” Conscious of four pairs of eyes on him, he willed himself into false serenity, picking up his winecup without haste.

“And then the Noldor will sail,” Elladan said quietly.

“Soon,” Tindómion said. “I will miss thee, I wish thou wert coming.”

“While Imladris remains, we will stay here.” Elrohir looked at him and smiled. “But we will miss thee also, all of thee.”

“You have had further trouble with Rosriel's faction, Glorfindel informed me?” Elrond removed his gaze from Legolas.

“She hates Fingon. She hates her son and all the Fëanorions. I think she hates every-one in truth, save for those who say that which she wishes to hear, such as Borniven.” Tindómion rose and walked to the long windows. “I do not envy Erestor. Walking away from _her_ proved him to me, not his skill in arms or council.”

“For his sake I hope it will not be for long,” Elrond murmured. “If Fëanor can be made to listen to his council it is often wise and balanced. Rosriel's feelings for Gil-galad have always been unnaturally violent. Borniven's are easier to understand. Who else supports them?”

“Glorfindel may know, but he – and Fëanor – agree this is a matter which should not be dealt with using Valarin powers.” Tindómion gazed out at the gardens. “That is one of the facts Erestor will uncover. I suspect the same people who supported her in Lindon. I had little to do with them.”

“Do not underestimate her malice,” Elrond warned. “If she is confronted with the fact that Fingon was married to Maedhros long before his marriage to her, it could push her over the edge into insanity, and insane people can be cunning and very dangerous.”

“She is already insane,” Tindómion said. “What mother could hate her own son?”

~~~

Legolas excused himself after finishing his wine, and went to Glorfindel's chambers, thinking that he would miss Imladris almost as much as his home. But there were forests in the new haven, Glorfindel had assured him, woods, meadows, a vast inland sea, hills and mountains beyond. It sounded beautiful, but all Elves were loathe to leave the lands of their homes.  
 _We will make a new home,_ the rich voice with its ring of power assured him.

Legolas lay back on the bed, hands behind his head, he thought of the time he had slipped into this room with the bravado of youth tempered with grief and an aching hunger to have Glorfindel claim him. The conversation he had overheard had tipped the balance, and he had decided that if he could tempt Glorfindel perhaps all his arguments would be moot. _I cannot take him, Istelion. I know the penalty. And he is young, and of a realm whose king bears the Noldor no love. How could I reft him from his people? I have a duty to Imladris, and he a duty to his kingdom. I understand what this did to thee in Lindon, I saw it and felt it. I did not think to feel it myself._

A smile lifted the corners of the prince's mouth as he recalled Glorfindel walking in, in a shimmer of green and gold and pearl and stopping in one stride as he saw Legolas naked on the covers of the bed. Then there was all the discovery and pain and shattering pleasure of what followed, and love...He twisted restlessly and felt a smile in his mind, a promise.

~~~

Elrohir twitched the curtains across. The lamp-wick was turned down, and the fire drowsed in banked embers.  
“You are sure you will not go to Valinor – and return?”

The twins had discussed this since the Tindómion had come and spoken to them of their mother, and to hear of her had laid a balm in the ever festering wound left by her torment and departure from their lives. It had not ameliorated their cold hate of the orcs or the Dark which had created them so long ago. They were so close they could read one anothers most private thoughts, but equally could shield them, and they were not mirror-images of one another; each had their own wills.

“I am hoping she will return, after a time. And father's thoughts on our setting foot in Valinor have not changed, whatever else has.”

“He seeks only to protect us.”

“He always has,” Elladan's voice became deeper. “And we tried, did we not?”

“Yes,” Elrohir agreed. They had indeed tried many times to deny the desire which drew them to one another. They knew the punishment for their sin, these two, called the Stars of Imladris, and it had seemed a spiteful, petty thing to define love so narrowly. Yet there had been long years of barren self-hate and struggle before they succumbed, in guilty, wondering passion.

Glorfindel had told them to stay alive. He himself had no intention of returning to Valinor willingly, and he and Tindómion, the twins had indeed learned to stay alive. They became warriors of lethal skill, augmented by fury after their mother's violation.

“This is still wrong, though the Laws have been rendered void.” Elladan's voice was rough with desire as he held himself before his brother's buttocks and thrust, gasping as he was enclosed by gripping heat.

“You saw how Fëanor and Fingolfin looked at one another,” Elrohir's reply was taut and breathless.

It was always thus, the unmatchable pleasure, the dreadful joy of the sin between them, blood running laval, the hunger rising until it consumed them, and neither knew which soul, which body was their own. And at the root was love, two beings so closely intertwined that at times their thoughts seemed birthed from one mind.

“You feel as I do,” Elladan remarked in the tangled aftermath: entwined limbs and hair and sheets. Elrohir traced a fingertip around his brother's mouth, feeling the curves with appreciation.

“There is something afoot,” he agreed.“No doubt we will discover what it is, in time.”

~~~

Legolas was up as the sun flushed the sky to palest green and gold in the east. The air was fresh as cool wine in the throat as he leaned on the balcony looking east, listening to the rush of the falls. And he waited.

The horses hooves were loud in the dawn stillness. Legolas counted three. There were no escorts, although their arrival would have been seen by the patrols, but Glorfindel needed none to announce him. The sounds echoed as they entered the ward, and then there was silence. Legolas stepped from the balcony and strode toward Elrond's rooms.

Aredhel and Maeglin's faces were hidden by the deep cowls of their hoods. Glorfindel had cast his back as they crossed the Bruinen. They had ridden all night. All of them wished this to be over with.

Elrond had spent most of the night speaking with Tindómion, and had not slept. He was saying his farewells to Imladris, his thoughts unsettled, part regret, part impatience to leave. He had been lord of this valley for so long, had been born in Middle-earth, yet across the sea waited the wife long sundered from him, and his desire to see her was an ache in his loins. That was both a surprise and a delight, and he had pressed Tindómion as to Celebrian's looks and manner, wondering if she were truly healed. Tindómion had smiled and said: “Believe me, she seemed as she was when she first wed thee.”

Thus Elrond's thoughts that dawn were pleasant, as he turned at the knock on the outer door and called: “Enter.”

He was not surprised at Glorfindel's arrival, although the fact that he had not informed Elrond of it, was unexpected. Unexpected too, were those with him, two tall figures in long, hooded cloaks; a man and woman.

“Welcome, Glorfindel.” Elrond recovered himself, but lifted a curious brow as he gestured for the three of them to enter. He had known Glorfindel a long time, and recognized the resolute grimness under the gloss of power. A flicker of uncertainty snaked up Elrond's spine as he watched Glorfindel firmly close the door, saw his eyes glance at the balcony, where the curtains were still drawn. Why was privacy needed?

“Elrond.” Glorfindel turned to the two with him and they put back their hoods. “I bring thee guests. Aredhel, daughter of Fingolfin, and Maeglin, her son.”

There was no other way to say it, Glorfindel thought, and he had considered it. Elrond was a skilled debater – they both were, but in this instance there was nothing to debate.

The room locked into absolute silence. Elrond's face had the same expression, caught in the moment between the saying of a thing and the listeners comprehension. Glorfindel slapped the quiet apart.

“The child brought to thee yesterday bears the soul of Túrin Turambar. This is beyond the authority and indeed the power of any Valar, for the souls of Men are the province of Ilúvatar alone.”

Expression was pushing back into Elrond's face, eyes narrowed, lips parting. Glorfindel did not give him the chance to speak. “He told Irmo that Maeglin must reforge Gurthang, the blade that his father made, for Eöl cannot. His _fëa_ is houseless.”  
At that, Aredhel turned her head on it's graceful neck.  
“An old curse must be broken, fully and finally. When we recovered the sword, on Tol Morwen, Túrin's spirit was there. It had been there since his death. They must both be here, in Imladris, my friend.”

“Glorfindel...!” Elrond's eyes sparked into a blaze. “You call me a friend and bring the one who would have killed my father?” His voice was oddly quiet, as if all his emotion were directed elsewhere, and Glorfindel watched him with a warrior's detachment seeing every jump of nerve and sinew.

“If thou wouldst think this easy for me, reassess that notion.”

Elrond lashed: “You cannot ask me to do this!”

“I do not have to _ask !_ Eru wills it!”

“And _I_ will speak for my son.” Aredhel took a step toward Elrond, roused from silence by conflict.

Maeglin put himself before her. “I will plead my own cause, mother.”

“Do not make this worse for thyself!” Glorfindel snapped at him.

“It is I and my mother who will dwell here, _cousin!_ ”

“ _I will not take the betrayer of Gondolin into my house!_ ”

“Gondolin was _my_ home, Elrond, not thine. I have had to accept this!”

Somewhere, a baby started to cry.

~~~

Tindómion, like Elrond, had been thinking back over his life in Imladris. Unlike Elrond, he had never felt that valley was his home, for his heart truly lay nowhere after Gil-galad's death. Lindon with it's rich, poisonous court, two factions straining toward one another like snarling dogs was yet something he remembered with with a complex love, simply because Gil-galad had been there.

After leaving Elrond, he had climbed to the pool glade and sat beside the grave, white marble under white moon, his fingers running over it as if it were a beloved face. Even now, a chasm ripped open his heart, and he rose, head poised toward west. So many times he had stood here, the black wound of loss within him. Now Gil-galad had returned and Tindómion sought him and shied from him like a coy, lovestruck youth. The thought brought a wry gasp of laughter to his lips, but the memories this sad, serene place evoked in him were not a matter for laughter. He had been restless and half-hard all night, but would not reach across the leagues to share his needs with Gil-galad An old habit, that. He had never taken the marrowless bone of comfort offered by mind-to-mind communication. That would have been unendurable, he thought, when they could not come together. It was better to dissemble. Gil-galad had, anyhow, always read his desires in his eyes and actions.

 _I am a fool, and he..._ He cast a frustrated thought out into the air. _Does our love have to be a matter of supremacy, or are we simply making it so in our pride?_

~~~

The waiting Noldor had found a new avenue to expend their energy. Outside the walls of Mithlond, or in sheltered gardens, they took up weapons and trained, feeling remembered skills return. The practice waxed rough at times, but it was a much needed outlet for their tensions. And there were many.  
It was however, a joy to rediscover the play of muscle, to experience the old satisfaction in their strength and speed, to watch an opponent and anticipate their moves, to heft spears and draw back bowstrings, to lift a sword. The smithies of the Havens had been busy and that, Fingolfin remarked to Maglor, was also engaging Fëanor's attention.  
They shared a look which needed no words, and Fingolfin paused, watching Gil-galad in a flurry of blows and parry's with his father, Maedhros watching with a smile, Caranthir nearby and Baesel, Borin and Vórimóro stood, exchanging comments.

“One would think he expected war,” Maglor observed.

“From all I have heard of our new home, I doubt it, but it is as well to be prepared.” Fingolfin looked across the field to where a group of women were firing at straw targets. Aredhel had always enjoyed such sports, and had been a fine archer, as had Artanis. There was some friendly banter as several warriors joined them, and a peal of laughter. Fingolfin smiled at the sound.

“Where is he?” Maglor asked.

“Glorfindel drew maps of mineral and rock deposits. Fëanor wishes to make our home more splendid than Tirion. He is studying where to mine and build.”

“I have no doubt it will be more splendid.” At the preoccupation in Maglor's voice, Fingolfin brought his gaze back to the shadowed silver eyes and said softly, “I know how thou doth feel.”

“Father is not the whole tale, but, yes...and I am not guiltless.”

“As I am not,” Fingolfin offered and Maglor reached out and clasped his wrist.  
They turned their attention toward Fingon and Gil-galad as the two stepped back and saluted one another. The action was grave, but they were smiling as they embraced. Fingolfin recalled sparring in Tirion and Barad Eithil, the good natured jests and insults that had flown, and noted that there were none here. Too many had died for weapons practice to lend itself to mirth. He watched as Maedhros crossed to Fingon, and Vórimóro came to Gil-galad's side, laying a hand on his back, murmuring something into his ear. A strange expression crossed Gil-galad's face. He glanced across at Maglor and then gestured, and walked with Vórimóro from the field.

Fingolfin's eyes followed his grandson and he said, “The game between thy son and my grandson is as complicated as the one we play with Fëanor.”

~~~


	25. ~ And The Tale Shall Begin Anew ~

  
Gil-galad drew his wet hair aside and lay on his stomach, thinking of a night of blizzards, Tindómion massaging him, as Vórimóro was now. The skilled touches hardened him almost instantly, and he shifted with the exquisite discomfort, knowing that this was a mistake, and knowing, too, why he had agreed to the invitation. It was a subtle gauntlet thrown down at the Fëanorion's feet, a challenge to his intransigence. He need say nothing, Tindómion would sense what he had done.  
Vórimóro's touch became slower, insistent, and nerves thrilled and warmed down the length of Gil-galad's body. His erection was painful, and as he groaned and turned onto his back it jutted from the pelt of black hair at his groin. Vórimóro made a strange, deep sound in his throat. His eyes darkened to black with the widening of his pupils.

“I should not have agreed to this,” Gil-galad said huskily, watching under his lashes.

“I know thou wouldst have Istelion here.”

“He is not here.”

“He is a fool. I always wanted thee, but what can I say? I did not have the courage to approach thee.”

“In the age we lived in, who did? _Faelfaer._ ” Gil-galad called him by his epessë. “Yet this is unfair on thee.”

“I take no offense.” Vórimóro leaned forward. “I know where thy heart lies, and I know how the body can ache for release. Let me do this.” He curled his fingers around the shaft, and Gil-galad saw the surprise in his face at the sensation of silken skin moving over the rigid length. His own breath hitched, his hips bucked.

“They told us this was wrong, but why should we not delight in what we are?” Vórimóro breathed and his lips closed over the tip, where fluid was already pearling. Gil-galad flung back his head, his hands gripping the loose fall of hair and let himself be brought to flooding release.

Later, after he had pleasured Vórimóro in his turn and they lay relaxed, he found that he felt no guilt, only a sense of anger at Tindómion's stiff-necked pride, (and he paused a moment to consider his own, with a wry inner smile) and a simmering anticipation. And, as Vórimóro turned and smiled at him, he knew he need feel no compunction at using an old and dear friend, because of that very fact. There was bodily ease and comfort to be found with others. It was not the furnace which consumed him for Tindómion; they had been for one another since their first meeting, their souls had melded into the thread of steel and fire which linked the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin. With Vórimóro there was friendship, an understanding that this was comfort and sex, nothing more and certainly nothing less.

“I will say nothing to him, but he will not need to be told.”

Gil-galad leaned on one arm. “He will suspect, yes. He always did. He never called thee Faelfaer, for all thou wert close.”

“No, he never did.” Vórimóro slid a hand down Gil-galad's breast, pausing over a nipple, and Gil-galad was struck suddenly at how innocent they were for all their long former lives. It was a delicious thought...how much there was to discover.

“I watched the both of thee, when thine eyes met they bedded, even if thou didst not touch.”

“We did at times, but not enough. And we became locked in that dance like insects frozen in amber.” His voice became ragged, and he saw that it pleased Vórimóro. “Damn his wrongheaded pride !” He threw one leg over his companion's hip and forced him down. “I want thee !” he said roughly.

The dark grey eyes smiled.  
“Then take me.”

~~~

As the dark slackened and drew back, color blushed slowly into the valley. The air was still and the sound of hooves on the bridge came clear to him. Filled with a restlessness to return to Lindon, he stepped to the path and a sudden movement drew his eye toward Glorfindel's chambers below. Legolas jumped down the steps and strode down the length of the house. He was dressed and wore his harness, as if just as eager to depart, but there was something in his long, light walk which was less eager than challenging.

“Legolas?” he called, even as the still dawn was shattered by the wail of a baby.

  
Túrin was screaming, not the plaintive cries of hunger or the fretfulness of wind-pains, but furious shrieks that pierced the ear and congested his tiny face to plum-red. Cell had tumbled from the bed and Carreg's arms and was holding him, rubbing his back. His fists were clenched and he was stiff as a child molded of stone.

“Shhh, shhh,” she soothed, walking to a day bed spread with soft blankets to see if he needed changing, then lifting him and putting his mouth to her milk-heavy breast. He turned his head away petulantly and howled again.

“What is wrong with him?” Carreg demanded worriedly, as his wife brushed past him.

“I do not know,” she snapped.

~~~

“I have the right to know _why_ I am forced to house one whose very name is cursed by all the Noldor !”

“Thou knowest as much as I !”

“And it is not enough!”

“It will have to be,” Glorfindel's voice was flat with the control he forced upon it. “The One has not spoken to me on this matter.”

“I would not choose this, either.” Maeglin's expression was wry, bitterness hard and bright in his eyes. Aredhel had laid a hand on his arm and they stood braced against Elrond's fury, a wall built of Finwean steel. Mother and son looked startling alike. “But I will fulfil my part in this. Here – or elsewhere.”

“Then let it be elsewhere,” Elrond said. “You would have flung my father – a child – to his death had my grandsire not killed you !”

“I do not deny what I did. I have had to live with the regrets for thousands of years !”

“And truly you look regretful.” Elrond glared at him and then at Glorfindel. “How can you endure his company? How can you stand there and _tell_ me I must welcome him to my home?”

Aredhel's chin rose. She stared Elrond down with all the arrogance of her clan, but allowed her son to speak without interruption. Very well she understood the pride of men.

“If I had to take him to our New Cuiviénen, I would,” Glorfindel told him. “It must be here.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“How many times must I tell thee that I _know not the answer?_ ”

Aredhel did speak then. She said sharply, “Be quiet! The child is crying !”

They could hear the baby now, whose screams were so violent that Cell had run with him out of her room into the garden. She was not given to panic, but now she was deathly afraid. He seemed hardly able to draw breath, and she had seen children go into convulsions and die. They had come so far, lost so many she could not believe that they had been lead here for her baby to die, but her terror was a mother's terror.

Legolas turned at the sound. Tindómion came to a halt beside him, and they both saw the woman, sleep tousled hair black over a loose night-robe, as she ran barefoot onto the lawn. Carreg was just behind her. Elladan and Elrohir came from their chambers. Cell's head came up and she saw them and cried, “Help me !”  
Her voice was frantic. Legolas, who had wanted to set eyes on the one who had betrayed Gondolin, caused the death of Glorfindel and his people, found himself balked, his resolve thrust aside. His eyes widened, he almost thought he heard a command in his mind – and he understood it. Racing toward Cell, he held out his arms. “Lady, give him to me, quickly.”

She stared, brows drawn hard, and Legolas saw the refusal on her mouth. But suddenly it died and she relinquished the baby into his arms. The tiny body was rigid.

“Peace, little one,” Legolas said gently and at the sound of his voice the tightly closed eyes opened and fixed on him. This had happened each time he had held Túrin, this long, fixed appraisal, disturbingly adult in its intensity.  
 _It is thy face,_ Glorfindel had told him. _So young, he should not be able to know thee, but his spirit is not young and it knows thy countenance is familiar, so like to Beleg's._

The doors to Elrond's chambers slid aside as Legolas ran down the garden. Aredhel strode through them, and beside her was her son. Legolas needed no introduction, and heard Tindómion's sharp exclamation of astonishment. Here was Aredhel's beauty drawn harder, the male reflection of her face. No-one who saw her could doubt who he must be.  
She swept up to Legolas, a swirl of ebony and white and said soft and swift, “Lómion.”

Túrin drew shallow, hiccuping breaths, staring at Legolas' face, then as Maeglin approached him, he whooped, his mouth opening to scream again. Something gleamed dully in Maeglin's hand and carefully he slid a gloved hand down it, held it before him, the cross-guard and hilt iron-black in the bright morning, giving back no light.  
The baby's next cry faltered into coughs. His right hand spread like a small starfish, and his fingers closed as far about Gurthang's grip as they could reach – and clung.

There was a moment of utter stillness, save for the child's gulping breaths. Other Elves had been roused from their rest or duties and were gathering around. Cell broke the silence, looked from Legolas' face to Maeglin's, to the sword. Túrin's fingers relaxed slowly, and Legolas released him into her arms, where he nestled, shuddering himself into exhausted calm against her shoulder.

And Elrond, in one swift move, pulled the hilt from Maeglin's hand and stabbed the broken blade toward his unprotected body.

Aredhel was moving a step forward to reassure Cell. Her reactions were fox-sharp. They always had been.  
She spun on the ball of one foot and flung herself against her son's breast. Legolas heard a breathless curse from Tindómion, a clipped-off shout from Elladan, and felt, towering up like a vast thunderhead, Glorfindel's titanic power ready to come down on Elrond with lethal force. He kicked out, not thinking what he was doing, unless the thought were also the action. Elrond cried out as Legolas' foot impacted on his wrist and the broken sword snapped sideways, shirring Aredhel's hair, before thudding down into the turf.

“Stop !” Glorfindel's command struck through their bodies, thrumming in the marrow of their bones. He was the only one that moved through the motionless, stunned gathering. His eyes were a solid inlay of white-gold fire, as if the sun lay behind them. He took Elrond by the shoulders and said, precisely, “Get. Out.”

The sky darkened. The air quivered as a cold breeze rose, slapped over them with a tang of stale ice, and fled over Imladris. Then the light returned, and Anor hung like a golden shield above the world.  
Elrond staggered back into the waiting arms of his sons. His eyes were dazed, an appalled realization was breaking in them as he stared at Glorfindel. Maeglin put Aredhel back from him and, receiving her nod of reassurance, anger flashed over his face.

“It was not he.” Glorfindel released his hold on Elrond's shoulders and turned. “Hate thine acts he undoubtedly does, but he is no kinslayer.”

“Thou didst see how close that was! My mother...!” Maeglin's emotions choked him to silence.

“I did, and Legolas, I thank thee.” Their eyes met, but only the wood-Elf heard the admittance: _I have to be careful, learn how to gauge how much force I must use. I might have harmed him._  
“Come within.” He turned to the mute, astonished Carreg, who had flung an arm about his wife's shoulders and said, more gently, “Take her. All is well.”

The young man's expression was doubtful, but he nodded and guided Cell away, the baby sleeping against her shoulder.  
Glorfindel cast a long glance around. None had arrived soon enough to know the meat of this matter and although their eyes held curiosity, they turned away. Yet none were fools and it would be impossible to keep this secret.

Elrond was still shaken. He did not resist as the twins firm hands on his back urged him into his chambers. Glorfindel closed fast the doors and said, “That was not thy will on the sword hilt, Elrond. Thine hand, yes, but a Vala's mind behind it. He has gone.” He did not wait for a reply, but went on, remorselessly, “The pattern is already being re-woven. Elladan, Elrohir, thou shalt remain here after thy father has sailed, and must know this. This indeed is Maeglin, son of Aredhel. Say nought until I have spoken.”

Tindómion moved restlessly and felt Legolas' fingers tighten on his forearm. His face was dark. The twins expressions echoed it, muscles taut about their mouths.

“When Eöl was brought before Turgon,” Glorfindel said, watching steadily as a golden cat. “He drew a hidden dart from his cloak and hurled it at his son with the intent to kill. Aredhel threw herself before Maeglin and received a deadly wound.”

Elrond raised his head from where it rested in one hand. Tindómion suddenly turned in comprehension toward the woman. Maeglin's arm was about her, but she stood straight as a tower.

“Sweet Eru,” he whispered. “Again?”

“Yes,” Glorfindel confirmed. “The tale is being told again.”

Elladan quivered like a hound on point, and said: “Father?”

“Yes, I hate him.” Elrond did not look at Maeglin. “I would not have slain him but I could not even see through the anger. I could not resist.” His voice was curiously flat. “I do not appreciate having my hand forced. Why? Why would they attempt this?”

“Spite,” Glorfindel said. “Why would they wish to see a better conclusion than the tragedy that was Túrin's life? They had no hand in that, for good or ill, but Beleg loved him. Manwë was lashing out in hate.”

Elladan said nothing, without moving he seemed to shift closer to his twin.

“You stopped me.” Elrond's voice teetered on the edge of accusation.

“I had to,” Legolas said levelly. “I was coming here with hatred in my own heart, to look on the one whose actions lead to the death of my lover, his people, his friends, his king. I have as much right to hate as you, Elrond. But this is not about us. It _does_ concern my great grandsire and the child. You saw what he did. If... _he,_ ” the prince gestured to Maeglin. “has a part in this new tale, it is not for us to judge the will of the One.”

“The will of the One,” Elrond came to his feet, his face stony. “It is not only the will of Eru at work here ! I felt Glorfindel's power ready to strike at me. In the end, the Finwions' _always_ lock together like a shield wall.”

“Thou hast Finwion blood.”

Elrond walked to the door, turned to look at Glorfindel. “Clearly not enough of it. You ignored my sons' sin – and it is a sin ! – because in the House of Finwë such things are winked at. You could have killed this traitor in your power, and did not, because the blood runs too thick and hot does it not?”  
The doors slammed behind him.  
Tindómion let out a breath, felt Legolas' fingers unclench.

“Glorfindel?” he questioned.

“Fëanor knows, as does Fingolfin.”

“They _know?_ ” The bronze head shook in bewilderment. “ _Why?_ ”

“Why dost thou think?”

Tindómion's eyes moved to Aredhel. She crossed to him, long skirts rustling like windblown leaves.

“He is my son.”

In her words he heard all the possessive love of her bloodline. She raised a hand and laid it on his cheek; her lips whispered against his throat, “Thou art like my uncle. Thou wilt not rob me of my son, as he will not.” Her head turned to encompass the twins. “As thou wilt not.”

Her scent and touch disturbed him, but there was no slyness in her. She calculated as Fëanor did; her beauty and charisma were weapons she would not hesitate to use.

_Hells, she must have driven Eöl mad._

Elladan's cheeks were aflame. He looked like a dark torch in the room.  
“Lady,” he said tightly. “We lost our mother. We need to take counsel, but no matter what your son has done, how could we take him from you without staining our hands and hearts?” His voice was edged. The question was not rhetorical.

“Thou canst not,” Aredhel replied calmly. “I _will_ die for my son.”

“Unsay those words !” Maeglin was white with the fear he had felt for her and the anger he felt at her. “I will not have thee stand between me and mine enemies, mother.” His body was clenched about his emotions, locked in a fist over the contradictions of love and shame. Aredhel turned to him, one of her wonderful, generous gestures, suited to open spaces and great mansions.

“I trust that thou wilt prove thyself, Lómion, but thou hast the least right of any-one to _tell me_ what I may or may not do with my life!” She whipped the words into his face. “Even my own father may not do that. Nor would he try !”

“They allow me to live because of _thee,_ I cannot carry that burden, it demeans me.”

Her brows rose. “That is part of the debt thou dost owe. There will come a time when it is paid.”

She had forged, Tindómion realized, one kind of tension out of another, laid down before them the indisputable fact that anything that touched Maeglin touched her. And, because of her, no-one would lay a hand on her son.

“ _Hells !_ ” he enunciated with helpless rage and slammed out of the doors into the garden.

“The sword,” Legolas said, after a moment. “Túrin felt it.”

“Yes.” Glorfindel moved to his side, ran a hand up his back, a fleeting gesture of love and lust, instinctive as breath. “Aredhel, how couldst thou guess?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Did not Túrin's actions, wielding Alglachel, cause him the greatest grief of his life, from what thou hast told us? I guessed the babe would feel it's presence. Eöl was a genius.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “Anglachel and Anguirel had a presence to them, even as the Silmarilli.”

“The child accepted it,” Glorfindel mused. “Acknowledged it by laying his hand on it.” His eyes looked beyond the walls, beyond the sky. “It has already begun.”

~~~

It was a dark place. The trees that grew here strangled one another's roots, rotted and fell, leaning drunkenly against their neighbors as they crumbled. Fungi colored like blood and dead flesh sprouted from the decaying wood. There were sullen bogs and muted heather pushed past rocks blotched with lichen. Rills of water wept down ragged channels as if eager to reach the sea.

Tol Fuin, the Elves of Lindon had named it long ago, but those few who had set foot on it did not linger. Once it had been Dorthonion, a wild, beautiful upland of tarns and pine, of rushing streams clear as dew and cold as snow. Then had come the Dagor Bragollach, and Morgoth's powers had reached into it's once clean forests. After, it was called Taur-nu-Fuin, the Forest under Nightshade. There, after his defeat by Lúthien, Sauron had fled and dread had seeped into its mists. A dark and haunted place it became and even after Ages, the sun cast long shadows. No Elf would live on Tol Fuin – but many had died there.

The shape of the land had changed after the tumults of the War of Wrath. Yet he knew it where he walked.

 _We came through the northern forest..._  
  
There was a forest here now, forbidding and black. He sensed no evil, but there was a memory of it, as if it had sunk into the earth from whence the trees drew moisture, and ran, melancholy and tainted in their sap. He was alert and armed; it was rare he had gone weaponless save in the guarded realm he had served for so long. Only duty had ever called him from it. Duty – and love.

It was impossible for him to retrace all the steps of his life save in memory. He had stood at the white rail of the ship and felt the chasm of time which separated all that had been from all that now was. But although the world might change, the soul did not, this he had learned, Beleg Cúthalion, whom had woken beside the star-sheened waters of Cuiviénen, and loved the most beautiful and doomed of Mortal Men.

He would begin his new life here, where he had died and then...?  
Certainly he would not go to the eastern haven of the _Golodhrim_ , but there were other lands. He would not remain in Valinor, yet he had tarried a while, walking in the woods of Oromë, and with him were those he had loved of old, all save the one who could never return, the greatest love, the most bright, the most bitter. And he was there when Tauron himself came, magnificent and wild as a king-stallion, and laid across his outstretched palms a great bow wrought of black yew-wood. Beleg's eyes, the color of sky-touched water, widened.

“It is in my mind thou shalt need a second Belthronding,” Oromë said with a smile.

Beleg's fingers traced the silken wood as if it were a child's cheek, his own sons... He had turned from the one who bore Oropher to follow that brief, doomed love, and he bore the shame of that desertion, but he had never felt shame for loving. It had burned like a beacon-fire on a cold hilltop. He looked a question.

“Middle-earth will never be peaceful, Cúthalion.”

“It never was, lord,” Beleg agreed. “This is a kingly gift.”

“Thou shalt use it well, I have no doubt.” And Oromë kissed his brow.

~~~

He remembered his death, here where the highlands had sloped down to the barren desert of Anfauglith. Through the ice-hot pain which had exploded through him, his eyes had clung to Túrin's, trying to shape words, any words, _The blame is not thine, this is the curse, oh, Túrin...beloved..._ In the wild storm light, the Man's face had looked harrowed by the flame of shock, cast into sharp relief by pulses of lightning. Beleg had yearned to move, to take his hand, to confer everything he could not say by a last touch, but Gurthang's wound sucked away his life and Túrin's frozen, devastated countenance had faded before the inexorable pull of death.

And then had come judgment and punishment.

Below him, the ship waited. He watched the sea nudge its pale timbers, the graceful rock of the vessel as the swell ran under the hull. Turning back, he scanned the rough ground, climbed over a tumble of grey rocks, and stopped. In this place of weary, dull colors, the nodding windflowers were incongruous as dancers in pink and white robes. They had grown in Doriath in early spring, moving at the slightest breeze, hence their name. A nameless emotion rose in him, gratitude that some power had seen fit to remember him.  
 _I died here. I will begin here._  
And yet...and yet...the ache, the unassuagable grief for one whom had gone far beyond the fate of the Elves.

  
The wind was rising, and a boisterous gust carried a squalling gull above his head. He pushed back disordered sheaves of silver hair and watched it beat eastward. It sounded, as it faded from sight, like a child crying.

“Ah, Túrin,” Beleg murmured. “Beloved.”

~~~

The shadow fell across the table. Maglor, startled out of absorption, looked up by way of a silver knotwork belt about slender hips and a cobalt-blue tunic to Celegorm's face. His eyes were in shadow, but his beringed fingers, spread on the wood, drummed, then swept along smooth grain in an impatient, distracted movement.  
Maglor put down the quill-pen and sat back. He already knew this characteristic entrance, silent, preoccupied, and as he had always done, he said, “What is it?”

Celegorm did not reply, but he picked up the wine-jug and poured two cups full, his habitual wordless indication that he wished to stay and talk. Maglor gestured to a chair and his brother sat down gracefully, lifting one long leg over the other, examining the tooled leather of his boot. Maglor waited until he had lowered the level of the wine by half before he spoke.

“Didst thou truly expect him to come?”

The question earned him an upward glance, a wry tilt of the lovely, sultry mouth.

“He never ran from anything but me in his life.”

“He never _ran_ from thee, Celegorm,” Maglor corrected softly. “He simply refused to run _to_ thee.”

“A nice distinction, beautiful singer.”

“A true one, nevertheless.”

Celegorm's eyes lowered again; the veiling rim of his lashes was outrageously long and thick.

“How couldst thou expect he would come?” Maglor asked gently.

“Well, he loved me.” Again that brittle flicker of a smile. “He denied it all his life until the end, and thou may say I am arrogant, but it is true, brother-mine.”

“Yes, it is true,” Maglor concurred.

Abruptly, Celegorm rose, paced to the window. The stars burned points of fire into the clear sky.  
“If only his dear brother, in a fit of pride and pique had not disowned himself, he would not have vowed never to cause their father further shame and grief !” He slammed a hand against the wall.

“If only,” Maglor said, dryly. “Thou hadst not betrayed him in Nargothrond and tried to take his throne.” ~

  
~~~


	26. ~ How Would It Feel To Lose Him? ~

 

  
~ The winter sun poured onto a silent Imladris. Elladan and Elrohir were with their father, Tindómion sat in the empty Hall of Fire, desultorily picking at the strings of the great harp. Aredhel and Maeglin were together.  
If he had been a youth, she thought, there would have been a strong suggestion of sulkiness about her son, as he sat at a table, turning the shattered hilt of Gurthang over in his palms. She watched him, nevertheless, with love and pleasure, his dark head bent, the lines of his face caressed by lamplight, and at last she rose and walked to him, laying both hands on his shoulders. He straightened, leaning back under her touch.  
  
“Never do such a thing again,” he said harshly.  
  
She smiled down at him, unmoved by his tone, knowing it came from the residue of his fear for her.   
“I will never have to, Lómion.”  
  
“Dûrion, mother.”  
  
Aredhel laughed. “It matters not what thou art called here. Those who suspect will say nothing. They would be in an impossible dilemma. And they do not _know_ anything. The only thing they can do is accept thee as Dûrion. And they will.”  
  
“I care naught for what they may think. I have said I will fulfil my part, and I will.”  
  
“Oh, thou dost care,” she said, amused and loving him. “Thou art my son. And one day, thou shalt be accepted into House of Finwë.”  
  
He rested his head against her breasts. She saw his lashes sweep down. “I do not believe it,” he murmured.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Carreg had called his cousin, and now the two of them and Cell spoke softly, while the baby slept. Cell hovered over him, brows crooked, and only shook her head when Carreg asked her what demon had disturbed their son's sleep. She did not tell him of the dreams that brought her awake, sweating and shivering – dreams of a black sword webbed with blood, of a man's face blanched with horror. They carried a weight that lay as heavily on her heart as destiny lay on her child, for Túrin was not simply any babe, she had known it as she carried him. That knowledge had driven her from Angmar, overridden the grief at the deaths of her people. But for now he was a child like any other, and she had feared for him. When he woke, hungry, she was relieved by the feel of the insistent suck of his small mouth on her nipple. She told Carreg to go with his cousin and explore the valley, she would rest with their son.   
Carreg tilted up her chin and met her eyes, kissed her and agreed. When they had gone and their son was replete, both of them slept in the pale glow of the winter sun.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The sun fell too upon Legolas, painting silver through his hair, and gold along the line of his shoulder and thigh, as he eased himself from Glorfindel and lay back on the bed. As their breathing gentled, as the waves of pleasure stilled, he returned to a thought which had temporarily been forgotten.   
  
“Should he not know?”  
  
Glorfindel twined a thick sheaf of Legolas' hair about one hand and drew him down, their blood-bruised lips touching again.  
  
“He will know.”  
  
“You said he is still grieving.”  
  
“He is. But this is Eru's will through Irmo, and I trust both of them. He will find his way here and he will know.”   
  
“If you could, would you tell him?” Legolas' mouth patterned down the strong throat, his fingers slid into gleaming hair.   
  
“I would, but perhaps Eru feels the Valar have meddled enough. Beleg will know it. Wouldst thou not feel my soul?”  
  
“Of course.” Legolas' breath drew in sharply as Glorfindel tugged gently at one of the nipple-rings. “But Manwë has already meddled. What would it have done to Elrond had he killed Aredhel? – and it would have been she, not her son. It would have broken his heart and perhaps his mind.”  
  
The tension on the sensitive nub eased. “Yes, Manwë did meddle.” Glorfindel's voice dipped itself dangerously low. “And I am forced to wonder again what else they meddle in. So I think I have the right to reply to that. But there are some things I will not tell him, Legolas, fearing to influence him, what he may or may not do. But I will give him hope.”   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
He found the room unexpectedly.   
  
Carn Dûm was a vast fortress and there was much below ground: tunnels carved out of dark rock, cells gaping like dead mouths behind rusting iron bars. The deepest levels were dank and dark and the silent weight of the tormented dead was dense and heavy. The Mouth cared nothing for that, only for mapping every ell of this place, each passage and forgotten room.   
  
The upper chambers had been cleared by the people of Angmar, and they were desperate to believe his words that no harm would come to them if they obeyed him. In a sense it was true, for he needed them, and to them, he was at least human, unlike the orcs, who had tormented and devoured them before he came.   
They knew this harsh land, husbandry which had allowed them to survive here, and the women were familiar with the strange fungi and herbs used to numb pain or enhance their dreams. The Mouth needed this knowledge also. When the women were deep in the drug, they could be mated with the orcs, and it was important that they live to bear the orc-get, not kill themselves in horror and madness as some had. There was no physical reason why a woman, Mortal or Elven could not gestate and birth a child fathered by an orc, but what woman would? Elves would die of the assault on their souls, and Mortals would choose to end their own lives. By drugging them, by promising comfort and ease and the safety of their families, the Mouth controlled them. So long as they produced children, he would would keep them alive, and there were girl-children among the captives who would come soon into their childbearing years. Mortals were prodigious breeders, and these women of Angmar were strong of mind and body. The men were more harshly treated, but were tethered by the women, daughters, sisters, mothers, as they toiled to feed the fortress.   
  
What brought him to a stop was a familiar reek of old sorcery. It fluttered up before him, beat around his head like the dark wings of carrion-crows, promising pain and terror. Raising one gloved hand in a dismissive gesture he walked on, then turned his head as the hulking orc behind him growled like a dog.   
  
“The torch, fool.”  
  
“Master...” The orc's guttural voice quavered incongruously.  
  
The Mouth's lips curled unpleasantly. “There is nothing to fear. The Witch-king hid something here. I recognize his arts.”  
  
The door was small, set back deeply in the rock wall. To a casual glance it would appear merely as a shadowed recess. The door was locked, but the sense of dread emanating from what lay beyond was far more effective than any iron bolt.   
  
“Fetch tools,” the Mouth ordered.   
  
~~  
  
It was not what he had expected, but he was not disappointed when he had prised apart the lid of the metal coffer, for he knew what it was.  
The long-hilted sword was unmistakably Elven, slender and elegant, the runes which ran down the blade like liquid fire were still clear as when written there thousands of years ago.   
  
_Anguirel,_ it had been called.   
  
“Now why,” the Mouth wondered aloud. “Would he leave thee here when going out to battle?” He felt the perfect balance of the blade in his hands. It sang a song of alien sorrows – and a warning vibration hummed deep into his bones as if it sensed his soul, knew him for what he was. He smiled tightly and swept it up, ignoring the heat which gathered in his palm.   
  
_Meteoric iron,_ Sauron had told him, like it's twin Anglachel.  
And then he realized that the Lord of the Nazgûl had never wielded this sword in battle. It would not have suffered his touch. It was a symbol, a memory of the ruin of the fairest city ever raised in Middle-earth, but Mûrazôr could never have wielded it.   
  
“ _I_ will wield thee,” the Mouth promised, and set his teeth against the pain. Pain was welcome. Pain was _life._   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The only sound in the room was the silken rustle of the fire. Celegorm's profile was white and still against the dark window. Maglor came to him, as he had once before on a cold night in the fortress of Himring. He laid a hand on the braced shoulder, remembering Celegorm and Curufin coming east after their banishment from Nargothrond, Maedhros' fury at their actions there.   
  
“Why,” he demanded, “Wouldst thou take the daughter of Thingol and imprison her? _Why_ turn his own people against Finrod and allow him to go to his death? Art thou run mad?” He did not allow either of them space to reply.  
“He took thee in and succored thee! Yes, I would see thee with mighty realms, I would see thee wed to Lúthien of Doriath, _if_ all were done cleanly and _if_ it was thy will and not a play for power. But not at this price! What happened that thou didst turn like a serpent and bite one I _know_ thou didst love, then capture an unwilling woman to try and force her father's hand? Not all have a taste for rough wooing, brother!”  
  
And Celegorm, his charming urbanity seared from him by fury and grief, cried: “He rejected me ! At the last he turned from me, and told me he would not break his vow to Amarië, or to Finarfin. No, he swore no oath to his father, but he took one in his heart. Glorfindel had walked away from his family. Finrod believed his parents should bear only one loss, not two!” He tore at his hair, his eyes wild and destitute. “The one I trusted, wanted for so long had turned his back on me, and in my anger, when I saw Thingol's daughter...” He closed his eyes, groping for words, he who was so eloquent.   
“There was something in her that I thought could...heal me.” He crossed to Maedhros, his eyes raking his eldest brother's face, then turned to Maglor, who was silent.   
“He _knew_ the Oath we made, he _knew_ we must reclaim the Silmarils or be lost to the Void!” He loosed his hands from his unraveling braids, and clutched at the air – or some-one who was gone from the world.  
“Yet when Beren came to Nargothrond, Finrod would give the Man his aid in recovering a Silmaril for Thingol of Doriath, who would never have relinquished it to the sons of Fëanor! He betrayed _us,_ saying he must hold by his own oath to Beren's sire!”  
  
“He was no oathbreaker, brother,” Maglor said softly, into the flame of Celegorm's anguish. “He had no choice, just as we have none.”  
  
“He set an oath before loyalty and kinship! And now...he is _dead!_ ”   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“I hated him when he turned his back on me. I wanted to show him that I could take Nargothrond from him, have him sue for my love. I wanted him on his knees to me.” Celegorm whipped around, searching Maglor's face, seeing the understanding there, _knowing_ it would be there. The sons of Fëanor loved one another with a vehement passion which encompassed both hate and love, and they knew each other so well that they could see the motivation behind each and every dark deed.   
He leaned his fair head against Maglor's raven one and murmured: “I tore my own heart from my breast. But he... _damn him!_ even in Beleriand, in lands where we could make our own laws, he rejected me. When I learned he had died I cursed him as I wept.”   
  
Maglor closed his arms tight about his brother. “Why didst thou not go to him in Tirion?”  
  
Celegorm tensed, then pulled back, his smile mocking, vivid.   
“He was reborn. He wed. His rejection of me was complete. But he _admitted_ he loved me in Nargothrond. I wanted him to look me in the eye and deny those words, so I could spurn him and then take him. Thou didst say to me, _'Sometimes we cannot have those we want.'_ Thou wert right. Indeed how could I have expected him to return? Yet a coward he never was!”  
  
“He is no coward. Wouldst thou throw oil on a fire? Is there not enough tension now? Finrod is wiser than thee. Thine own people deserted thee, and the better part of them have returned to follow Maedhros!”  
  
“Oh, there is that also.” Celegorm eased back and laughed into Maglor's face, seeing the flare of anger in his eyes. “I do but jest.”  
  
“Thy jests are too sharp for my taste.” Maglor released him. “Finrod was the one betrayed. Why should he have come to thee? He has his own pride.”  
  
“He drove me to it!”   
  
“Hells, brother, I think Lúthien escaped lightly if rejection of thee is paid for by death!”  
  
Celegorm took a step forward, coiled to strike. Maglor did not move and the blow caught him across the face. His hand snapped up and gripped his brother's wrist, fingers pressing the gemmed vambrace into the bone. They glared at one another silver-black eyes clashing with polished steel, and Maglor asked a question he had never asked in the years between the Dagor Bragollach and Celegorm's death in Doriath. There had truly been so few years between, and war and grief and the goad of the Oath had eaten them up.   
“Why didst thou go to Nargothrond, when thou couldst have come to Himring?”  
  
“To dethrone a king and take his crown,” Celegorm taunted with a bright, acid smile.   
  
Maglor's fingers tightened. “Yes, that it what every-one believes! Dost thou not know how we are hated at the worse and mistrusted at the least?”  
  
“I care nothing for the opinion of others!”  
  
“And well I know it!” With an oath, Maglor loosed his grip and turned away. “Oh, get hence, before thou doth run me to the end of my patience!”  
  
“Because the Dagor Bragollach made me realize how easy it would be to lose him,” Celegorm hissed. “We founded our realms, we leagured Angband, and we waited! The Oath slept in those years. There was time, as we built and mined, we feasted and hunted, we flourished. I believed we had _time!_ ”   
  
Maglor looked back. “So did we all.” His voice was softer.  
  
Celegorm went to the table and picked up his wine. “I went to _see_ him, and he welcomed us. When we were shown into his great hall there was joy in his face.”   
  
“Why didst thou say nothing of this when we went together to speak to Glorfindel of Dior's sons?”   
  
The question caused Celegorm to glance up again, that alluring sweep of lashes which might have appeared feminine, but somehow was not.   
  
“Thou hast never been rejected,” he stated.  
  
Maglor struggled against the burn of heat across his cheekbones.   
  
“I have never – ”  
  
“Do _not_ lie to me. I am not blind.” The wine shivered as Celegorm slammed the cup down. “ _Thou hast never been rejected._ Why would I wish to speak to any-one of that feeling? Wouldst thou?”  
  
“We are thy brothers.”  
  
“ _He_ rejected me, and then she, who with a touch of her hand could have laid balm on my heart, turned from me as if I were too tainted for her eyes to look on. No, I did not wish to bare those wounds even to my brothers. Hate was easier. There is,” he added, “less guilt in hate.”  
  
Maglor sat down and reached toward him. “Thou didst come to talk.”  
  
Celegorm hesitated, pride warring with the need to share his anger, his love, and gazed at his brother's face. Pain and sorrow had only honed Maglor's beauty more finely, like a sculpting given the last polish by its creator's hand. Without a word he sat down at his brother's feet, as he had when very young, and tipped back his head. The fire threw wavering light against the ceiling, and he thought of the lamps and torchiéres of Nargothrond. He let the memories draw him in, until the chamber of the Mithlond inn opened to the vastness of the throne-hall of Finrod Felagund.   
  
“The door guards greeted us, and bade us enter.”  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
“The king bids thee welcome,” one of them said with a bow. “Thou art to be extended every courtesy.”  
  
They were lead to rich chambers, their warriors housed. This, the chamberer told them, was on Finrod's orders. They must surely need to refresh themselves.  
“Our cousin is always thoughtful,” Celegorm murmured.  
  
There were no windows, but the tapestries that draped the walls gave color and a sense of space and light to the rooms. Wine and food had already been brought, and the servant awaiting him showed him the bathing chamber and bedroom. Others entered bearing garments, which they laid out on a chest.   
  
“When thy brother and thou are ready, thou wilt be taken to the King,” the chamberer bowed and departed.   
  
Celegorm washed with relief. He felt as if he had not truly bathed in years. Morgoth, whom had seemed to sleep, had opened his mouth and roared forth flame and death. It had caught all of them unprepared, and Celegorm was furious at the loss of his lands. His people had fought valiantly, but Angband disgorged orcs like a kicked anthill, and they seemed madenned by hatred for both Elves and Men. He had felt as if he were the prow of a ship cleaving through a iron-barbed sea, and dare not stop lest the waves overwhelm him. So many had fallen, and more carried wounds; he and the pale war-stallion he rode were both black with blood. There had been no choice but to retreat unless he wished to die with all his people. And he would not die. He had a duty to his house, to the Oath, and there were women and children to be got to safety. Himring, with it's massive walls, was safe, but Celegorm would not risk leading his people back north.   
  
News was laggardly. Fingolfin and Fingon were utterly severed from Finrod and the Fëanorions by Morgoth's armies. No-one truly knew what was happening in the west, but it was said Dorthonion was overrun.   
In the warmth of the chamber, he remembered sleet spitting on a north wind, louring grey sky, the taste of defeat like iron on his tongue.   
  
_Nargothrond,_ he had thought and then, with leap of fear that startled him: _Finrod._ He had not felt fear in battle; there was no room for fear in the hot, white fury of his mind. But with death's hot stink in his nostrils, the scream of it in his ears, the cloying blood on his skin, he wondered what he would feel were he to hear news of Finrod's death. It was unimaginable, yet he saw it in his mind, envisaged himself hearing the news, and the thought froze him as the bitter winds did not. It had been easy, even pleasurable, in the fecund years of the Peace, to consider Finrod's elegant composure shattered, his steel-clad honor discarded. Celegorm had savored the images, let them melt like honeyed wine through his body and mind. One day Finrod would surrender. One day.  
  
And then it was borne upon him that there might be no _one day._  
  
 _To see him._ That had been the spur which drove him on, riding up and down the line of his people, encouraging with word and will, maintaining his leadership, shouldering weariness, never allowing it to show. And now, they were safe in the rock-hewn arms of vast Nargothrond, and Finrod was alive and waiting.  
  
“Thou hast not forgotten my tastes, coz',” he murmured as he studied the clothes left for him. They were surely Finrod's own, for they bore the kingfisher-blue touches he favored. Beside them was a jewel-casket and the lamplight glossed black pearls, gold filigree, fire-opal. He smiled as he inserted the earrings, tiny pearls that climbed his ear from lobe to tip in alternating black and moon-white - for that had always been one of his affectations and Finrod, for all he might deny him, had not forgotten how many earrings Celegorm wore.  
  
“Art thou attending a wedding feast?” Curufin eyed him sardonically as they met in the hallway above the fan of stairs, and Celegorm smiled as they were lead down. Curufin cleaved to him, but was too absorbed in his obsession to equal their father's genius to look far beyond it. He considered Celegorm effete and decadent, one who lived for sport and pleasure, some-one he need prove nothing to.   
  
Great double-doors swung inward to the throne room, where pillars opened like slender hands to hold the rock above. Lamps hung from the ceiling, rich hangings sparked with gold and silver thread, and behind the dais, tiers of galleries rose. Behind Finrod's throne hung his banner, rippling faintly in the air currents.   
  
Huan's great head rested on Finrod's thigh. That had been calculation on Celegorm's part, for Huan had always loved Finrod. Sending him to the hall as they arrived had been a way of greeting his cousin and re-establishing their connection.   
  
Celegorm watched his cousin rise as their names were announced. Finrod's hair flowed like thick cream from under his crown, and his eyes caught the lamplight and blazed like blue jewels. He reached out his hands and step by step they closed the space between them. The smile that curved Finrod's beautiful mouth, that brilliant smile which held such sweetness was, Celegorm knew, for him. There was no art in it, no formality, it flowered spontaneously out of relief and love.   
  
“Cousin.” Their hands clasped, then Finrod amended, “Cousins, thou art full welcome here.” And, very low: “I thank Ilúvatar thou art safe.”   
He gave the kiss of kinship to Curufin and turned to Celegorm again, who felt the press of warm lips on each cheek and then against his own. Finrod's lashes dropped for a moment, and when he drew back, when their eyes met, his face shone like an alabaster lamp. He did not realize the gift he gave at that moment, thought Celegorm, whom had only ever seen that elusive gleam before it was shut behind the serene, lovely mask of Finrod's face.   
  
“It is good to see thee too, cousin.” The habitual mocking arrogance had drained from Celegorm's tone. His beringed hands closed on Finrod's. “I have feared for thee.”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“I did not plan turn his people from him, send him to his death,” Celegorm murmured. “For a time then, there was only he.”  
  
He had relaxed under the gentle ministrations of Maglor's fingers as they massaged his temples, unraveled the thick braids of hair. Now they combed languidly through the loosened waves. Finrod's hair was almost this color. In Valinor if the two stood together, they had looked almost like twins.  
  
“It is like an ocean,” Maglor said softly. “We look at the surface, but there are abyssal depths below it. I did not know, for thou didst never speak of it.”  
  
“Wouldst thou easily admit attempting to usurp a throne and ruining a king because he rejected thee?” Celegorm demanded, raising his head and turning. His hair lay across his brother's lap like a cloak, and Maglor's fingers tightened in it, drawing his head back down.  
  
“I only spoke to Maedhros of raping Fanari Penlodiel. But I had to speak to some-one. I did not...know who she was, not then, or I refused to remember her. I was mad.”  
  
“Thou didst not rape her through spite.”  
  
Maglor resumed his pleasurable combing.   
“Nevertheless I wronged her, and I felt no peace until she forgave me. And thou shalt have none until Finrod forgives thee.”   
  
“He turned from me, and I determined to take everything from him until there was nothing left for him but me,” Celegorm's voice was stark. “I still cannot forgive him. And how should he forgive me?” ~  
  
  
  
~~~   


Celegorm, by Tuuliky.


	27. ~ Circles of Fate and Fire ~

 

~ The taste of salt was in his mouth.  
Icy spume dashed his face and the wind dragged cold hands through his hair, flung it back from his face. He stood balanced on the pitch of the deck, unconsciously allowing the movement of the ship to roll easily though his body. There was nothing on the horizon, and he glanced up to the lookout perched high above the rigging. The sailor shook his head.

Gulls flew over, those white birds whose calls laid the sea-longing in the hearts of Elves, tempted them to the stultifying purity of Valinor from whence there was no returning – or had not been, until now. He had never known that yearning, he had loved Middle-earth: the clear waters, the oak, and lofty beech, the sun-drowned forest garths. He would not have dwelt in Valinor even had he been permitted to. And of course, he had not been.  
His people had never seen anything wrong in loving another of their gender, and neither Melian or Oromë had spoken of any prohibition forbidding such unions. Beleg had heard of the Laws given to the Eldar of Valinor only after the House of Finarfin had been allowed into Doriath, but had dismissed them as nonsensical. None could order where one loved save Eru, whom Himself had gifted them with the ability to love.  
After his death, offered the choice to repent and be reborn, Beleg had refused.

 _Thou shalt be reunited with the women thou didst gravely wrong, the mother of thy sons._ Námo regarded him with contempt.

Beleg had indeed wronged his lover. They had never been bound in marriage, but deep friendship and sometimes desire brought them together at whiles. She understood that he would not give his heart, nor bind himself to her, but she did possess a part of him, and their times together had been sweet. Thus she had borne his children, and their sons were tall and and beautiful. There were other lovers, warriors, for where men are in close company, warring or hunting such things will happen, but there had never been a love to shake his heart, until Túrin.  
Beleg would not admit the love he bore the young Mortal had been wrong, and was appalled that the Doomsman of the Valar considered it so. He had been shaken by the hate in Námo's night-black eyes, and felt his spirit rise up in a defiance and contempt which at least matched Námo's own.  
He had not repented.

Beleg had seen the potential for greatness in Túrin, something he thought, even Melian and Thingol had not. He was one of the very few who recognized the Man's access to compassion and love, albeit bitterly compressed by the curse that lay on his family, and the arrogance which estranged many. Yet there had been more to Túrin than pride and doom. Beleg had breached the walls about his heart and found there passion, generosity and an empathy that was almost Elvish. Túrin had so vivid an imagination that he was haunted by the fates of his father, his mother and sister, the people he had left behind in Dor-lómin. He clad his soul with steel to keep out the pity he could not have borne, to control the grief and despair which threatened to smother him.  
Beleg remembered...  
He closed his eyes. _I must not think on it..._

 _“Thou doth not have the choice my daughter did. Only grief can come of loving a Man,”_ Melian had told him, one summer night. Beleg had not answered save with the touch of his hand upon hers, a gesture of understanding. Those were the last words she spoke to him, and she was right, wise Melian. How could there be aught but grief when death sundered Elves and Men so finally? He wondered how he would feel seeing Túrin grow old, but in the end, that had not been either his fate or Túrin's.

_No, Cúthalion. There is no need for thee to go to Tol Morwen._

The voice might have come from one standing at his shoulder. It startled him and reflexively he looked around, but saw nothing. He knew the voice though; all Elves had heard after the Renewal.

_I must do this._

_Námo told thee that Túrin's guilt and grief chained his soul to the world._

_Yes._ And Beleg did not know how he had endured that knowledge. There should have been peace for Túrin after death. It was one of the mysteries that surrounded the souls of Men, not so different to the houseless souls of those Elves who refused the call on Mandos.

_His spirit has been released, the broken sword taken from the grave. What thou doth seek is not on Tol Morwen, Beleg._

“Anglachel has been removed?” He was shocked into speaking aloud. He remembered the feel of the hilt in his hand, Melian's words of warning which had proven true. _His soul is at peace?_

 _His soul is no longer bound to the place of his death, and the sword will be reforged. Beleg,_ Glorfindel's mind-voice was gentle, _Círdan waits for thee at the Grey Havens. Speak to him and begin thy life once more in Middle-earth._

Beleg had known the Shipwright long ago. They were both of the Unbegotten, awaking under starlight beside cool waters. He had thought to journey to the forest realm his descendant Thranduil ruled. Perhaps Círdan had maps and advice for him.

_I thank thee, Lord Glorfindel, but I cannot begin my life anew until I have said farewell to one I loved and love still._

_He does not wait for thee there._

Beleg felt a tightness in his throat. _I know it._

_Trust me. I too will meet thee at Mithlond._

~~~

Fingolfin rolled up the plans he had been working on as the door opened and his grandson stepped through. It was as well they were sailing soon, he thought, as he rose to greet Gil-galad. The energies of the Noldor would be better spent on building their New Cuiviénen than in wrestling, hunting and sparring here. It would only be a matter of time before tempers snapped. At least it would not be as before, after the Exile, when they had brought so little with them, had to learn of the land from the Grey Elves.

“Grandsire.” Gil-galad came forward with a smile. “Thou didst wish to see me?”

“Yes, Gil.” Fingolfin gestured to a chair and half-leaned back against the table. “Glorfindel is returning. Soon we will leave.”

“I am ready, we all are, I think, and yet...”

“Lindon was thy realm, and a wide and fair one.”

“Yes. And it is strange to return to it, and see it as it is now.”

Fingolfin saw the sorrow in the silver-blue eyes and understood it.  
“There are fond memories among the bitterness,” he said.

“Yes, and it does not seem it can have been so long. There was no sense of time in the Darkness.”

They shared a moment of burdened silence. How could one explain the hopeless horror of the Void, both timeless and endless? Yet their souls had endured it.

“I know.” Fingolfin's voice was soft. “I wonder if, for those of us who were banished there, if that is not the hardest part for us to accept? that the world has gone on without us, and we are as strangers.”

“A stranger.” Gil-galad's expression was self-mocking. “And beyond Mithlond there are mansions and palaces that the weather has eaten, places I knew. Yet we...have not changed.”

Fingolfin's fine mouth tilted up. “Have we _not_ changed, Gil? Thou wouldst have not casually taken a lover in Lindon, wouldst thou?”

“Ah. This is why thou didst call me, grandsire?”

“Jealousy is a dangerous game to play within our clan,” Fingolfin said. “But I think that is precisely the reaction thou doth want from Istelion.”

“Is this a lecture?” Gil-galad asked haughtily. “I have needs and Vórimóro is a friend. There is nothing more than that, neither does he think it.”

“How should _I_ lecture any-one?” Fingolfin raised his brows and they faced one another, proud, beautiful Finwions. “And I did not know thou hadst taken Vórimóro to thy bed – I guessed and others may also – those who bear us no love.”

“Istelion will know without needing to be told. ”

“Yes he will. And he will be jealous, but I think he is too proud to come to thee.”

“I do not think he will either,” Gil-galad admitted, but with a certain light in his eyes. “I know him too well. But he has become too used to not having me, and I do not intend to spend another Age waiting for him. As for Vórimóro, he understands, and surely thou hast simply needed ease of the body, the comfort of a friend?”

“We have all needed that,” Fingolfin agreed. “ But always there was Fëanor, in life or in bitter memory. My first love, the last thought in my mind as I died.”

“Hells, I never cease to think of my stubborn Fëanorion either,” Gil-galad said. “In life, or in death. And now we have fallen back into this ancient dance. I know why, and there is no logic in love and desire, is there? And so I will ruffle the falcon's feathers a little.” His laugh held anger and frustration. “It was not so complicated for my father and Maedhros.”

Fingolfin was amused. “If it is within the House of Finwë, it will be complicated - affinity is at the root of it. Do not think that there were no stormy waters in their love.” He poured wine into a pan, pushed the metal crane over the fire and stirred in honey.

“Didst thou ever try to make Fëanor jealous?” Gil-galad asked, sinking back into his chair. “Forgive me if I presume.”

“Thou canst not presume, grandson. I know Glorfindel told thee of me, of himself and Fëanor. There are few secrets in this clan; we know one another as we know ourselves.”

And that was perfectly true.  
“When he took Glorfindel as a lover, didst thou seek to rouse jealousy in him?”

Fingolfin waited until the wine had heated and poured it. He saw so much of himself in Gil-galad it was almost eerie.

“I did not take another lover,” he replied. “Although the Valar affected to ignore us, they knew – although I believe my half-brother truly did not care.” He spread a hand toward the flames. “He was, _is_ , so beautiful, so forbidden...I cared less for the Laws than our consanguinity, though Fëanor had always been so distant that he never seemed a brother to me.”

“We are a strange family,” Gil-galad said. Fingolfin's eyes lifted to his, and he laughed. There was bitterness in it, and anger and fierce, passionate love.

“One might say that.” His carved mouth held to the smile. He sipped the wine, settled back against the cushions, all tall, long limbed elegance. “Like thyself and Istelion, we had to enact a lie. Our father was High King, we were public figures, married, ruling our own great households.” Gil-galad nodded. “And half-brothers. But we were greatly protected by the inarguable fact that Fëanor disliked his father's marriage to Indis and showed no interest in Finarfin and myself, at least at first. Rumors spread that he bore us no love, and he and I fostered them, encouraged them, even began the rumors ourselves. In public we were formal, cold.”

“But the eyes say everything,” Gil-galad murmured. “They speak when we cannot.”

“And they did,” Fingolfin said.

“So, how does one handle a Fëanorion?”

Fingolfin made a gesture, as if he cupped something in his palm, “There is no right way. And who would wish to tame fire?”

Gil-galad's eyes glinted. “And there is a thrill in the blood when dancing with the flame, grandsire.”

“I know it.”  
So well he knew it, from the first fugitive stirrings of desire to the flashing public looks that passed between them after consummation.  
Fëanor had often been away from the palace, but when he returned to attend a feast, to see their father, Fingolfin wondered that no-one could sense what lay beneath the meticulous formalities of social intercourse. Perhaps their father did; if so, he had said nothing. At times Fingolfin saw the brilliant laughter in his half-brother's eyes, utterly at variance to his apparent indifference. There was nothing to do but ignore it – and ignoring Fëanor was impossible. Anairë had guessed his feelings and he was sure Nerdanel had also. Neither were obtuse. He stared into the weave of the fire, pale child of the furnace that blazed within Fëanor.  
  
It had not been any fault of their wives that bodily desires had waned, they had simply accepted what the Valar told them without question: the Moriquendi whom had not received the Laws were unenlightened. It had been their choice to ignore the invitation of the Valar, who would have raised them from their carnal appetites and rude lives and revealed to them that their true natures were refined, their destiny greater: to dwell in the Light of the Trees in peace, learning arts and meditating upon matters of the spirit.

Those Elves who had awoken beside Cuiviénen said little of their former lives once they came to Aman, but Fingolfin wondered now if some came to regret leaving Middle-earth with all its dangers and beauties. Certainly Finwë, when questioned by his sons, seemed reluctant to talk about it. Perhaps his brevity had of itself roused curiosity in his insatiably curious elder son; long before the Exile, even before they became lovers, Fëanor had spoken of the Outer Lands as one who yearned to go there. But many of the Amanyar simply accepted the words of the Valar, believing that the One had sent them to lift the Quendi from their darkness and ignorance. The pattern of their lives was to wed young, bring forth children, and then allow the years to strip desire from them. After, they would turn their minds to other things. Fingolfin had felt relief more than anything when his wife forsook intimacy. He no longer had to pretend, or use the bitter drugs his father gave him to spur reluctant lust. Fëanor was his first, his greatest love, and the most impossible, thus he had tried to shut his forbidden feelings away and devote himself to his family, his duties as a prince.  
  
He felt a flash of sheer rage for the Elves whose minds had been so influenced by the Laws that they believed each article of it without question. The Valar did not need to impose their will, the Elves did that themselves, save for one and nothing, not even death, had been able to quench the flame that burned within Fëanor. And whomsoever it touched carried it ever after, like a torch in their souls.

At that moment the source of the flame entered the room, all energy and haughtier and a blazing smile.  
“I hear we are to depart.” He passed Gil-galad with a sweeping touch to his shoulder and came to Fingolfin's side, neatly lifting the winecup from his half-brother's fingers and drinking.

“Thou art welcome to drink with us,” Fingolfin said, dry-toned.

“I know I am welcome. How not?” Fëanor held his eyes over the rim of the cup, and it was the same as it always had been, as it ever would be, sparks leaping from their souls to meet, hissing and crackling in the air between them.

“So what dost thou speak of so seriously?” 

“I was asking my grandfather how one handles a Fëanorion.” The reply was something of a challenge. Fëanor glanced back at Fingolfin, then moved to Gil-galad and leaned down to murmur in his ear, “One does not handle _us,_ we handle _thee._ ” And he laughed.

Caught between amusement and anger, Fingolfin came to his feet. “Is that so, indeed?” He advanced on his half-brother who spun to meet him, saying, with a gleam, “Well, _handle_ me, brother.”

“No-one with a mote of sense would wish to.”

“We will pass over thy sense – or lack of it, dearheart.”

Gil-galad watched them, startled at the familiarity of what he saw, not knowing that Fingolfin had thought very much the same a short time before. Had Fëanor's hair not been shining jet to match Fingolfin's, he might have been looking at himself and Tindómion, and the image was both strange and arousing. They did not wrestle boisterously as young Elves were wont, this was a lethal dance which made the body itself a weapon. It was said to have originated before the Great Journey, before the Elves devised weapons. In Aman, it had become a competitive sport which all Noldor might learn, and Legolas, joining in one bout, had said that the Silvan Elves had been using this technique when his grandfather first came to the forest.

Gil-galad knew the wonder and joy of feeling old skills return, as if the body and soul both remembered everything learned in the old life, and sent the memories flowing into every nerve and sinew. It was sheer delight simply to _move_ , to breath, to touch.

This was indeed as graceful as a dance, yet much faster, and far more dangerous, the snapping kicks and blows could maim, even kill. But neither Fëanor nor Fingolfin were aiming to hurt, only to test and, Gil-galad surmised, to expel some of the unassuaged hunger that seethed between them.

A flurry of moves brought them back to circling one another, their eyes locked. Both were smiling. Gil-galad saw the pout of Fëanor's mouth as he shaped a kiss, and the high color paint itself across Fingolfin's cheeks. His infinitesimal pause allowed Fëanor to jerk him close.  
Fingolfin could have used his arms, even smashed his forehead against Fëanor's – an unfair move, but one which no Elf had ever hesitated to use in battle if the need arose. He did not. His arms went about Fëanor instinctively, and their heads rested together, black against black. Fingolfin closed his eyes and Gil-galad's heart clenched in a spasm of familiar pain at the raw emotion which blazed from his grandfather. Fëanor glorified Fingolfin, and his face shone as he turned it blindly into that flaunting black mane. His lips parted on silent words, brushed the heavy hair before he controlled himself and drew back. It had lasted only heartbeats.  
_Ah, grandsire, forbidden or no, there is no-one else for thee just as, lovers notwithstanding, there is no other for me but Istelion._  
A whip of hunger cracked at his nerves, flaying them open.

“Dost thou know when they will return?” he asked, as he found a third glass for Fëanor and poured fresh wine. The question was calculated to break the tension. Gil-galad knew what it was to deny himself, knew that Fingolfin's body and soul writhed in fetters of his own forging. The half-brothers were skilled dissemblers from long practice, but Gil-galad was now certain that the two were not lovers, or not yet – and what that cost Fingolfin.

“Glorfindel said they were leaving Imladris as he spoke.” Fëanor turned and crossed to him, taking the wine. His eyes were like nothing Gil-galad had ever seen, flaming diamonds that reflected his moods: anger, amusement, affection, desire. Now they shone with unsated lust and, too, love.

“It will be a long voyage, but there are uninhabited islands and bays where we can put in for water and fresh food.” He looked radiant with anticipation, and it was infectious, yet Gil-galad still felt a pang of regret that he was leaving, not planning to rebuild Lindon.

“Dost thou mean to travel with thy lover?”

“He was ever one of my closest companions, sire. Of course I will travel with him.”

“And my grandson?”

“I wager thee he will not choose to journey with me,” Gil-galad snapped.

Fingolfin said: “I would not take that wager, he will not. A long sea-voyage is both too intimate and not private enough to pursue such affairs.”

“Indeed?” Fëanor looked at him, held his eyes as he drank wine. Gil-galad remembered Tindómion in the Hall of Feasts, his first formal meal within the palace, when he had accepted the goblet from Gil-galad's hands and pledged him. Over the rim of the chalice their eyes had clung just as fervently as the half-brothers did now.

“There is not enough room for a Finwion-brewed love affair in all of Middle-earth,” he said, and the three of them laughed.

“I can tell thee this, Gil,” Fëanor put a hand on his shoulder. “Tease him all thou doth wish – it is a game as thrilling as a hunt, but if thou wouldst flaunt a lover before his eyes then be prepared for battle.”

Gil-galad inclined his head. “Sire,” he replied, with a lilting smile. “I have always been prepared for battle. But as I have told my grandsire, I would not taunt Istelion so crudely. I wish to see what affect his suspicions will have upon this dance of ours, that is all.”

~~~

It was dusk when the ship dropped anchor, and its ramp lowered to the stone quayside. There were greetings from sailors on other ships, but Beleg did not speak or move for a long time. The scent of the land intoxicated him. It seemed to sink into every pore of his flesh, lay on his tongue like moss and water, brown earth and rising sap. It was the end of winter. He would have known that from the air had he been blindfolded. The Stirring approached.

They had not, after all, been able to land on Tol Morwen. A fierce north sprang up, and even the skilled Teleri mariners could not anchor where the sea hissed about the rocks, swirled into white-frothing whirlpools. Beleg suspected it was unnatural, that Glorfindel did not want him to set foot there. Anger had risen in him as the ship boomed past the small, dark island, and he looked back into the throat of the wind for a long time.

Lamps burned on the quay, illuminated Círdan where he stood, waiting. At last Beleg moved, walked down the ramp and clasped wrists with the Shipwright.

“Welcome home.” Círdan's grip was strong. Save for the beard, which Beleg had never seen on any Elf, he looked unchanged, but Ages had birthed and died behind his eyes.

“Home?” Beleg questioned, and then, “Yes. Home. It is good to see thee.”

“Come, Glorfindel wishes to speak to thee.”

Beleg drew his hood over his face, an anonymous, cloaked figure who walked at the Shipwright's side. He was silent, feeling the land even through the stone-laid street, talking long breaths of the night air.

Círdan's villa overlooked the quay. Built of white stone, it was nonetheless comforting, and warm woolen hanging in shades of blue and green hung the walls. The scent of mulled wine wafted from an open doorway, and Círdan lead Beleg through and closed it behind them.

Beleg had known Finrod, and had seen Glorfindel on the borders of Doriath, and later, in the blood and dust of the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He was as golden and magnificent as Beleg's memory of him, but his eyes held compassion. What Beleg had not expected was the Elf who stood beside him. The hair was brushed through with primrose and the eyes held flashes of blue, but the shape of the face was his own.

“Beleg Cúthalion,” Glorfindel greeted him with a smile. “This is Prince Legolas Thranduilion, son of Thranduil Oropherion.”

Legolas' smile was warm as sunlight. He stepped forward, raised a hand to his breast. “It is an honor to meet you, Lord Beleg.”

~~~

They were lovers, clearly, his great grandson and the new-made Vala, close and passionate. Beleg could never have foreseen it, but neither could he have foreseen the sack of Doriath, or that his sons would journey far over the Blue Mountains and become kings, each of their own realm. They had come to him, Oropher and Amdir, before he departed Aman and told him of their lives. He was proud of them and of their progeny. With Amdir had been his son Amroth, whom Oropher said resembled Thranduil to a remarkable degree. Amroth's arm was about a woman like apple-blossom: Nimrodel, his wife. There had been a sadness about them, hanging like mist over their love and only after they departed did Amdir reveal their history, that Nimrodel had borne a son and died.

“They have never seen him?” Beleg asked.

“He has never come to Aman and Nimrodel will never go back to Middle-earth,” Amdir replied. “But their son lives. Glorfindel sought them out and told them.”

Beleg sipped the hot wine and said, keeping his voice level: “Thou didst prevent me from landing upon Tol Morwen, Lord Glorfindel.”

Legolas flashed his lover a look.

“Yes, I did.”

“I had the right to go there. I did not truly bid him farewell.” Beleg's control cracked. “I wanted to...find some peace. I know there can be none. Only memory.” His eyes stared beyond the room, back into the past. He shook his head, slim brows drawn. “Why was Anglachel removed from his grave?”

“To be reforged,” Glorfindel said. And that snapped Beleg into the present.  
“Why? For what purpose?”

“There are some things I may not tell thee. And indeed I know not the purpose, as yet.”

Beleg rose, unsettled.

“It was a dark blade,” he murmured. “Yet it was not evil.”

Legolas came to his side, his face shadowed with concern, and Beleg looked at him. There was something moving here. He felt it as surely as he had felt the sap rising in great trees, water running under the earth.

“There is a place,” Círdan said. “On the skirts of the Towers of Mist. A hidden valley named Imladris. I have maps, and the journey will be quiet.”

“I thought to travel to see my grandson.” Beleg was surprised.

“If that is what thou doth wish, then go. Thou wilt be honored in the Great Wood, and welcomed.” Glorfindel held his eyes.

“But?”

“But Anglachel has been taken to Imladris, and I would urge thee to go there.”

Beleg felt Legolas' hand on his back. “And thou?” he asked the prince.

“I also would wish you to go there,” Legolas said.

There were secrets behind their eyes, but through his confusion Beleg felt a deep thrill, as if a storm-wind were blowing through his soul. A log broke and crumbled in the hearth.

“Very well.” He set the winecup on the table as if it were the first move of a game-piece.  
“I will go to Imladris.” ~

~~~

 


	28. ~ Dissonant Departures ~

  
~ The departure of the Noldor had been swift once Glorfindel returned from Imladris. Most were eager to set sail, but there had been the anticipated objections when Aredhel's brothers learned she was not to come. She had said nothing to them and they were close, although as Fingon pointed out, perhaps the very reason she had been silent was to avoid explaining herself – something Aredhel did not feel was required of her, at least in personal matters.

“She formed an...attachment to one of the Elves living in Imladris,” Fingolfin told his sons. And it was no lie. “And thou doth know she has her own mind and will do as she wishes. Lord Círdan has said ships will remain here and can make the voyage to New Cuiviénen. It is a long one, but Aredhel may make it if she desires, and Glorfindel can watch over her from afar.”

“We know well what happens when Aredhel's wishes are disregarded.” Fingon sought to reassure Turgon, whom had never ceased to feel guilt at allowing Aredhel to leave Gondolin. He had told himself he should have known that once she was without it's walls, she would have gone whither she would. Indeed she had all but warned him her movements were not for him to question.  
“Thou didst raise no objection, _adar?_ ” Fingon searched his father's face intently, but could read nothing. Fingolfin was too adept at concealing his deepest secrets.

“I trust the son's of Elrond, who will remain in Imladris after their father departs, and I trust Glorfindel,” he said. “Aredhel must follow her own heart. I hope that one day she will follow us, but I would not force her to come.”

Fingon spoke after to Tindómion, asking him if he knew the Elf whom had captured Aredhel's interest.  
“I saw her in the company of Elladan and Elrohir, sir.” Berating himself for being so wrapped up in his own affairs that he had no ready answer, the Fëanorion said the only thing he could think of. It was not an untruth, for Aredhel had taken a swift liking to the twins, and it seemed to reassure Fingon, whom had spoken to them when he journeyed to the valley.

“They will watch her, make her familiar with the valley and the lands about,” Tindómion went on. “And if she wished to join us, they would guide her here and Círdan would, in all likelihood, captain the ship himself.”

“It would be useless to order her to come with us,” Fingon mused. “Aredhel never took kindly to interference.” And he went to tell his brother, for he had been impressed by Elladan and Elrohir and believed Aredhel in good hands.

Tindómion, with a soundless exhalation of tension, went to see that the last of his belongings were being packed. He had not seen Gil-galad anywhere; with the level of activity that was not surprising, but he found his father in his chamber, carefully securing a lyre in it's oiled-leather wrappings.

“My thanks, father.”

Maglor tied the strings, looked up and smiled.  
“Since thy grandsire is now afire to depart, I thought I would help thee with the last of thy things. Fanari has seen that most of it is already aboard.”

“And so, at last,” Tindómion said. “I can scarce believe we are leaving – that we are _free._ ”

“Art thou free? ” Maglor asked. “Am I?”

“At least the opportunity to be free,” his son amended, thrusting his hands back into his hair.  
“I went to Gil's grave. Why do I feel the need to suffer grief over and over?”

“Thou doth fear that this cannot be true, as do I. It is in thy words,” Maglor drew him close. “ _I can scarce believe._ We both lived so long without those we loved.”

“I know I am thrice a fool, it is as if I am testing the reality of this, daring it to vanish.”

“Thou art no fool.” Maglor's leaned his brow against his son's. “This voyage will give us all time to think, and in our new Cuiviénen there will be much to do.”

“And thou art tormented also,” Tindómion said softly. “I cannot help thee – but I can at least be with thee.”

His father's face cleared into a wondering smile.  
“And that I could never have hoped for.” He kissed his son's cheek. “Whom wilt thou journey with?”

“With thee, unless thou wouldst prefer otherwise.”

“Has Gil-galad not asked thee to travel aboard his ship?”

“He did not say so, and I have not seen him, but no. It would be too...close.”

“That closeness will greatly facilitate intimacy,” Maglor said. “At least to grow more accustomed to one another.”

Tindómion closed his eyes at the thought, spikes of fire driving through his nerves like nails of pleasure and pain.  
“He knows,” he said, tight-lipped. “Where I am.”

“Yes, _adar_.” Maglor punched his arm, and as his son's eyes opened wide, said, “Well, thou hath all his intransigence.”

“Oh, and thou not?”

“I need it, there is no reason for _thee_ to...”

The sound of mingled voices approached along the corridor, and Tindómion turned swiftly, recognizing Gil-galad's, who was saying, “It is possible. In any case, our own will grow within a few years, ”

He paused looking into the room, a hand resting companionably on Vórimóro's back. Both of them were smiling.

“Gil'.” Tindómion stepped forward, and then something – the closeness of the two, an expression in their eyes, halted him like a hand placed on his chest. He had never liked the possessive attitude Vórimóro displayed toward Gil-galad, although he could admit to himself he was being grossly unfair, and that his own was far more jealous. He knew beyond a doubt, however, that had circumstances been different, he would have had a serious rival. Did he have one, now?

Gil-galad's eyes warmed, or Tindómion believed they did, and he came into the room, reaching out his hand.

“I came to ask if thou wouldst both journey with me,” he said.

Maglor's eyes flashed to his son.

“I have talked to Fëanor,” Gil-galad continued. “and he has no objection.”

Tindómion would have demurred, save for the unwelcome suspicion that had burned up in his mind. He looked at Vórimóro, and saw that he was unhappy with the invitation, which afforded Tindómion some satisfaction. He took Gil-galad's proffered hand.

“Thou knowest I will pledge myself to my grandsire, but under him, thou art still my king.” His grip tightened.

“And thou art still my knight-companion, Istelion,” Gil-galad agreed, increasing the pressure of his own fingers, while he continued to smile. “My household will be as it was in Lindon.”

Tindómion half-heard his father say something to Vórimóro, but his attention was wholly locked upon Gil-galad. He was continually struck by visions of the face before him dead, of bathing the blood from it, combing the long black hair, and such moments took his breath in a gasp of agony. The taunting amusement in the silver-blue eyes faded.

 _Istelion..._ It was like a breath over his mind, an intimate caress of his soul.

“I went to thy grave, for the last time.” His voice was harsh.

“My dear _fool._ ” Gil-galad released his hard clasp and seized Tindómion's face roughly in one hand. “I am here. I _live_ and if I am within thy sight often enough perhaps thou will believe it.” His grip gentled, and he drew his thumb down the line of cheek and jaw, to the lips.

Tindómion would have plunged recklessly into the offered kiss had they been alone.  
“Yes, sire.” He threw a challenging look at Vórimóro, and his teeth closed – not gently – on the pad of Gil-galad's thumb, whose eyes flared. And then they both laughed, tense and roused, as Vórimóro watched.

~~~

The Ered Nimrais now march beside us, as we journey, breathing ice plumes against the sky. The last time Elgalad saw them he was young, and he remembers. He was conceived here, as his parents came south to find Edhellond, perhaps beside the Swanfleet, that sweet river beside which we camped long ago.

I find there is symmetry in so many things; I might have walked through some door into the past, save that the Elf beside me is grown now, tall and beautiful and _mine,_ as I longed for him to be and knew he could never be. Now he is mine to cherish and protect – from myself.  
But I cannot withhold affection from him. Who could? He needs it, but he also gives it with each look and smile, as he ever did. And he does not realize how I need it, nor how his very proximity rouses me so that I am afraid to touch him lest I lose control. I, whom have fought to control my fear, pain, madness, am almost undone by love.

He trusts me absolutely, and would accept anything I did to him, but he would not know why I played such esoteric games with him, and how could I explain? One has to know pain and rage and helplessness to develop an appetite for it – Maglor would understand, and one day he and I will meet again.

Power and Freedom. Those two words buffet me, surprise me like a hunter springing upon unwary prey. I have seen power and been a slave to power, shadowed by it. I did not trust it, did not want it, though it ran in my blood like poison. Ironic that I should have it now. Or is it?

Freedom is the danger, not power – I could not be free and so I did not allow myself to think of it. There is madness in hope, and I vowed I would not go mad. At times I realize I am waiting for Sauron's voice in my mind, his touch of power and pain. I think I will always be waiting for it. Perhaps it is as well, for if I truly believed in my freedom I think my joy would shake the roots of mountains.

These first years are vital to me. I begin with nothing, and I know that to live with any degree of comfort in the world of Men, one needs wealth; wealth for privacy, for one thing. Wherever we go we will be aliens, and men will stare. I am used to it, Elgalad is not, and he will miss the company of his own kind. He thinks he knows me, he thinks he needs nothing but me, and this delights me and amuses me in equal measure, but it is not true. He has never seen the cities of Men in the south and east, their richness and vice. Many a city ruler would pay dear to have Elgalad grace his couch.

I have a plan which, if the bones fall well, will enable us to accrue enough coin to travel and live in comfort at least. A great war, a shift of power brings many changes, but also opportunities for those willing to take risks. In Lake Town and Dale, men were speaking of the possibilities of trade now that Sauron is gone. Dorwinion grew wealthy not only for it's wines but because it acted as a trading-post between the east and north, but now they are talking of by-passing the middle-men and traveling themselves. An opening of trade will bring benefits to every land, and I doubt Elessar would balk at the wealth the Harad has to offer, any more than distant Cathaia would refuse the metals of the Iron Mountains.  
Elgalad and I can act as armed guards and travel between the north and south for many years, and I know the customs of the south. I can make myself indispensable very easily. These will be years of becoming accustomed to what I am, to my beautiful charge who looks up at me so sweetly and trustingly, but with a hunger in his eyes that makes me want to take him down on the winter-bleached grass and feel his body around me, hear his moans. And he sees it, and does not know whether to press forward or withdraw, for I have to deny him for as long as I can. And it hurts me to deny him after so long.

There is another consideration which molds my plans: I do not want to sever Elgalad from all he knows. By the time the beech leaves turn to bronze in the Great Wood, we will, I hope, be back in the north. Besides – and now my thoughts fly to Imladris, and a child born with the soul of the most cursed and damned of Mortal Men – I want to see what happens in this new tale of Túrin Turambar and Beleg Cúthalion, whom, as Glorfindel has informed me, is even now headed to Imladris.  
 _“Thou didst interfere,”_ I teased him, amused, but I would have, had he not, and he knew it. _“Twice.”_

 _“Legolas also believed I should have allowed him to land on Tol Morwen,”_ Glorfindel replied. _“But I foresee he and Túrin will both set foot there in the future. Beleg will realize, soon enough, that there was no farewell to be made.”_

And that is true. Túrin is a babe with an old soul, and that soul will recognize Beleg as soon as he sees him...

Elgalad asks me if we should look for somewhere to make camp. Last night we did not pause, but this evening we will. I nod and he puts down a grouse, it's plumage still winter-white. He shoots with a beautiful, easy fluidity, lovely face intent, and then he smiles, with heart-wrenching sweetness as he looks at me. How can I resist him?  
How can I not?

_Thoughts of Vanimórë. Rohan. Echuir* Third Age 3020_

~~~

“She is close to me and never said a word,” Celegorm was finding his father's reaction strangely unsympathetic.

“Perhaps it never occurred to her she needed approbation from thee.” Fëanor cast a glance about the chamber, ensuring nothing was left, then looked back at his son. “She may join us in time.”

“But _adar_ – a hidden valley? Gondolin was a hidden city and she felt curtailed there. She has not changed so much that she will not seek greater freedom sooner or later. Does no-one but me see the similarities between this and her former life?”

“Being re-born has not afflicted us with stupidity,” Fëanor said, acerbic. “The sons of Elrond are not inexperienced warriors. They have lived in Middle-earth longer than any of us.”

“Well, I for one am astonished Fingolfin permitted it after the last debacle,” Celegorm responded, taking on his father's tone.

“It might be worse had he not acceded. The Elves of Imladris know this land. We do not know the place where we go, save that it is safe, but there be many more dangers beyond it.”

“Does Glorfindel say that?”

“He said no land is entirely safe.”

“Of course.” Celegorm's tone was edged. “He has powers now to watch from afar.”

“Yes,” Fëanor agreed with his wonderful smile. “Perhaps if thou art that concerned for thy cousin, thou shouldst speak to him.”

His son did not miss the lurking mockery in his eyes.

“We do not...deal well, _adar._ ”

Fëanor gave a shout of laughter, “No, _really?_ ”

“I understand his hatred.” Celegorm flushed vividly. “However, I will give him his due: he is not unreasonable. He did vouchsafe the fact that the sons of Dior lived.”

“Glorfindel has a generous heart, like his elder brother.” The brilliant eyes caught the light like burning water, tender, mocking. “I have not suddenly become obtuse either. I was privy to _all_ my sons did. It was part of my punishment. Morgoth decided it would be. I could not but witness. I know what thou didst essay in Nargothrond, and I know _why._ I would doubtless have done the same, but that thou didst let it end there – I am surprised, and disappointed in thee.”

“And so am I,” Celegorm flung at him. “Hells, father, this is no knot to be untied with a few apologies. He chose a Man over me, my brothers, the fate of all of us... ”

“And he refused thee, and so thou didst seek to take his throne, his realm and master him: show him what he _truly_ wanted.”

A frisson of pure lust shook Celegorm's body. His loins ached.

“Yes.”

“Go and ask Glorfindel if he will keep a distant eye upon thy fair cousin, and perhaps,” his father smiled, that disturbing sensual smile. “He could also convey thy _concerns._ ”

The double-meaning of his words was not lost upon Celegorm, who glared at him mutely before storming out of the room. He heard the rich ripple of laughter following him, and slammed the door with unnecessary force.

The streets were busy, carts and pack-horses that had loaded the last supplies of fresh food and fodder were being driven back from the harbor, and a bell was tolling the change of the tide. He had little time. Glorfindel came out of the house just as Celegorm reached it. His former castellan, Ofelmo was with him and bowed with a parting word, before walking down the slope of the road. Legolas appeared in the doorway, a pack on his back, with bow and quiver, and the handles of his long knives showing. Glorfindel turned back to him, but Legolas, seeing Celegorm, made a movement of his head.

Glorfindel looked around. His expression was studiedly neutral.

“We need to catch the tide,” he said.

“Then I will walk to the ships with thee.” Celegorm fell in beside them, went on, after a moment, “Aredhel said nothing of wishing to stay in Imladris.” He looked straight ahead. “It seems too...similar to Gondolin. She will be restless.”

“I can watch her, if that is what thou wouldst ask.” Glorfindel did not look at him; both of them addressed the air before their faces.

“I imagine thou canst, being a Vala now.”

“I am not, strictly speaking, a Vala, I am an Elf whom has been given the powers of a god. There is a difference.”

“I suppose there is,” Celegorm's imagination was caught by that. “So, thou canst see Imladris – now?”

“I can see it in my mind, yes. Does that content thee?”

“Thou canst see everywhere, even Aman?”

Glorfindel spared him a brief glance, “Yes.” His stride lengthened.

 _Thou didst have the opportunity to speak to Finrod before we departed._  
The rage in his mind-voice was so fierce, Celegorm felt it as a flash of heat through his body.  
 _If thou wert to go on thy knees before him it would not be enough. Hells, thou canst not imagine how much I want to break thy cursed necks._

 _He denied me and set the romantical ambitions of a Man over our kinship – our very lives – yes, and our fate after death,_ Celegorm blazed back.

 _And thou couldst not see what that cost him?_ Glorfindel demanded. _Finrod will not come back to Middle-earth. Thou hast ensured that._

_Has Valinor's chill sapped all his blood from him, then?_

Glorfindel stopped in one pace and whirled on him, his eyes unhuman in their power.

_I do so **yearn** to kill thee, but I think I would hurt one I love if I did so._

They faced one another while the bustle of the streets flowed around them. Celegorm, eyes unblinking, said: “It was never finished between us. He knows it. And so dost thou.” Each word was precise and hard as the chop of a knife.

He thought Glorfindel would strike him, and almost hoped he would. He needed pain against the frustration and fury he felt both for himself and Finrod. Legolas had halted and was watching them both, impassive, though his body had tensed.

“Celegorm?” The voice behind him was Curufin's.

“What didst thou want with him?” his brother queried, as Glorfindel and Legolas walked away.

“That is between us.”

“I can guess,” Curufin persevered, his tone one of disapproval. “It is better left in the past.”

“Thou wert always jealous. Pretty well for one whom has not yet made peace with his own wife and son!” Celegorm stalked down the road, leaving his brother gasping in incredulity.

~~~

It had not taken Legolas long to realize the effort Glorfindel expended in presenting an approachable demeanor to the Noldor. He was endeavoring to be fair to all, and it was taxing his temper, because he admitted frankly that it would please him better to drop some of them into Orodruin.  
Celegorm was one of those, Curufin another, and Glorfindel's feelings toward their father were impossible for Legolas to define. For the two brothers' who had tried to usurp Finrod's throne Glorfindel's emotions were far more clear.

“If I were in the mood to be generous, which I am not,” he said in their spacious cabin, watching the stone buildings of Mithlond slide past. “I would say Curufin is more to be pitied, for he, more than any, strove to emulate his father, and failed. But Celegorm loved my brother and when that turned to hate, tried to destroy him. And he succeeded. It is not in my power to forgive him that, neither do I wish to. I have to force myself to remember they, all of them, paid in the Dark.”

Legolas watched the numinous light ripple across his face, saw the muscles locked in his jaw. He shook his head.  
“Perhaps I will never understand how love can become that bitter.” He drew off his boots.

“I would not wish thee to. He is right in one thing though: it is not finished between he and Finrod.” Glorfindel turned from the portal, and his expression changed, his eyes melted over his lover's unclad body.

“Well, thou doth certainly know how to turn my mind from unpleasantness.” His voice came deep and honeyed.

“I think you need it turned.” Legolas backed to the bed and crawled onto it. Later they would talk, and he would voice his own opinions. But now...

Glorfindel unbuckled his belt. “Thou canst not know how much.”

Legolas' pupils expanded with arousal as he watched Glorfindel discard his clothes.

“Then show me how much,” he invited.

~~~

The ships eased out of the harbors of the Havens, from Mithlond, Harlond and Forlond. Gracefully they followed the lead ship, with its fiery banners unfurled and their sails boomed out, cupping the north wind. One after another they fell into line on the grey waters of the firth until they passed through the narrow channel into the open ocean and turned south. From the steep green hill overlooking Mithlond, Beleg stood watching until the ships were small as flecks of leaves, and then he turned and set his face to the east. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Echuir: The time of stirring.  
> The Sindarin name for the Elvish season that lay between modern 1 February and 27 March


	29. ~ A Tapestry of Tears ~

  
~ Beleg let the land enter him. It flowed upward through the soles of his feet, sank into his skin, burrowed into the roots of his hair. He supped of the air and the clean, restless scent of a world bidding the winter farewell. It was more than food or wine or rest to open himself to the vibrancy of Middle-earth, for he was of it as surely as the molded hills, the veins of rivers; Eru-begotten, rising from cool grass to stand under the pour of starlight beside the Waters of Awakening.

He did not sleep on that journey, he _absorbed,_ and sometimes it was enough to make the loss, the ache within him, sink into the background of his mind, throbbing as a wound which must be borne.  
He sought back in his mind to Mithlond, to Glorfindel, Legolas and Círdan with whom he had spoken before he departed. Glorfindel he did not know, the Shipwright had been a friend, and Legolas he had loved on the instant. Was that, he wondered with a spark of humor, egotistical? Walking in the garden of Círdan's house with his descendant, he wished he had more time to come to know him, but the Noldor were sailing, Legolas with them, and the urgency which had swept into Beleg could not be denied any more than the rising sap in tree and grass.

~~~

“Wilt thou not miss thy forest?” he asked, needing no answer. It was there in the clear eyes.

“With everything in me, yet there are forests where we go, and my father will always be king of the Great Wood, long after Men have forgotten us. My home will remain.”

“And then, there is love,” Beleg murmured with a faint smile. “The heart's only true home, I think.”

“You left Doriath to follow love.” Legolas' searched his face.

“I thought my name must be forgotten, or spoken of with shame,” Beleg remarked without rancor.

Legolas' eyes went very wide. “Never in my father's realm,” he declared. “Never among the Silvan Elves or those who came with my grandsire from Doriath. Never in Imladris, either. Your name is highly honored.”

“I wanted only to act honorably,” Beleg replied. “And yet I failed. I left a friend, a woman I loved and should have wed, for a greater love.”

Legolas said nothing for a moment, then: “Nevertheless, thou art remembered with love.”

~~~

Had it not been for the intensity in Legolas eyes when he advised him to travel to Imladris, Beleg would have journeyed to find his grandson, Thranduil. He might yet, he thought, watching the stars open in the gaps between the clouds, listening to the rustle of night creatures, the sharp cry of a little owl. A Man might find these lands lonely, Beleg did not. To him, they were wild and alive.

He had spent the night before his departure listening to Círdan recount the Ages since his death, but such a thing could not be told between dusk and dawn. There were books of lore and history in Imladris, the Shipwright told him.  
Discontinuity.  
The time between his death and now was a crevasse in his mind and he sought to bridge it with knowledge, with what Círdan had told him, what he himself had witnessed in blood-red flashes while his soul was held in the grip of Night. And those had come so often, a jerkily repeated pattern, like the spasms of a dying man, (like Túrin as he died above Cabed-en-Aras, and that thought had brought him the closest to dissolution and madness.) Yet he had endured because to surrender to oblivion would be to forget.  
There had been other souls there, he had sensed that sometimes, when the visions released him. He could not touch them, but he felt them, furious, grieving and defiant, and one of them burned so powerfully that it acted as an anchor, a beacon.

It would be too strange, he thought, as he paused to drink from a stream, to read of his life in a book or scroll, his life and Túrin's....But was not his grief only a small thing in the greater grief of all the Elves, woven into the agelong tapestry of tears? He saw the sorrow in Círdan's eyes, in Glorfindel's, in Legolas'. The new powers whom had arisen could not heal those wounds, even as they would not heal his, for they too bore them. He could hate the Noldor, the sons of Fëanor and their followers, for their attack upon Doriath, but he had witnessed the terrible, grinding defeat of the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The kinslayers had paid for their oath and offenses in pain and death and the torment of the Void, for they had certainly suffered as he had. Beleg wondered if a sojourn in Imladris would give him time to learn and accept all that had come to pass.  
Or, if not accept it; bear it.

The map Círdan had given him was well drawn, and he needed only follow the shade of this old road toward bare hills where ruins crumbled in the insatiable teeth of time and weather. He felt the memory of darkness about them, birthed from the same shadow he had known and fought. There was, he thought, no discontinuity in evil.

His soul and all its memories had slipped easily into his body. As he walked, breathed, drew the beautiful bow, he could rejoice in the absolute rightness of _being,_ and he had found that he could laugh, and weep and all of it was _life._

Círdan had offered him an escort to Imladris.  
“It was founded in the wars of the Second Age,” he had said. “It is not easy to find unless one knows the way.”

That was when Beleg had discovered he could laugh.

“What wouldst thou wager me?” He watched the Shipwright's lips turn up, but Círdan leaned forward, tapping a spot upon the map which lay on the table between them. “The northlands seem quiet since the end of the war, but the both of us know better than to trust in seeming peace and here – the Trollshaws, a place of beech-woods which might beckon thee, but trolls come down from the Ettenmoors – here – at times. They rarely go near the road, but have been known to take travelers at whiles. There are caves further back in the hills.”

“Then I thank thee for telling me, though I doubt, old friend, that any troll could come nigh me without me knowing,” Beleg teased.

“I doubt that too, but for all the skills thou wert justly famed for, this land is new to thee.”

“I know it,” he replied. “And I have no intention of needlessly walking into danger.”

He saw no trolls, nor heard them, but his senses remained alert, even when he stopped to eat, to wash in the icy streams. It was a beautiful land, he thought, and remembered following Elwë, crossing the Towers of Mist and coming, long after, to Doriath. Legolas had told him that Oropher had fashioned his woodland halls in the Great Wood in memory of Menegroth, and again he wondered what drew him to Imladris, a Noldorin haven, when he might journey on and come to a forest realm ruled by his grandson.

 _There is time,_ he thought as he carefully put out the fire, ensuring none would mark his passing; an old habit, but one he saw no reason to break. A fox had quested close, unafraid and hopeful as he gutted the grouse, and he had tossed the entrails toward it and after, the carcass. When he had finished, only a skilled tracker might see another had passed that way. He had taught Túrin these skills of the wild, and the young Man had become almost as adept as an Elf. Almost. He was too impatient, Beleg had chided him at whiles, and the youth had flashed those beautiful grey eyes, or stormed off in high dudgeon. Once he had snapped that he was no Elf so why should he emulate them? Beleg had said nothing, and the youth had looked stricken and whispered, “Forgive me. Oftentimes I wish I _were_ of the Firstborn.”

“Why?” Beleg had asked, setting a hand on the shoulder that was broadening it seemed, each day, as Túrin grew into the tall Man he would become.

“Because I would not have to die...and lose thee – thy friendship.”

They had stood in silence, Túrin's head turned aside, a flush tinging his cheeks, the lashes long and soft above them.

“I do not believe love can die,” Beleg murmured. “Not though the fates of Man and Elf be sundered from one another. Even so, I will love thee until the stars cease to burn, my friend.”

That was the first time he had felt himself rouse to the young Man's beauty, and it had startled him. He had begun to love Túrin since, hunting on the north marches of Doriath, he had come upon the boy and his companions lost in the bewildering enchantments of the Girdle of Melian.  
And Túrin was not easy to love. He had more of his mother's steely pride than his father's warmth, and seemed to see himself as a foundling living on the bounty of Thingol and Melian. That, Beleg knew, was put into his head by Saeros and his cronies, for Nellas told him, Nellas who also came to love the young Mortal.  
Beleg could not always be in Menegroth, for his duties took him far afield, but when Túrin was older, he began to take the youth with him, teaching him the ways of the woods, of the bow and sword, of the arts of bare-handed fighting, and in those years his passion for Túrin grew to a raging fire. For the first time in his long life, he truly hungered.  
There were times when Túrin let drop his defenses, when Thingol's messengers had returned from Dor-lómin with news of his mother and young sister. He said little, but Beleg saw how it eased him, how he tucked the tidings close to his heart, and the shadow that sat on the young face would lift for a time.

Beleg lifted his face to the racing clouds overhead.  
 _I will remember, I will re-live each moment. Only in doing so can I honor his memory._ Uncompromising, imperious, flashing from heat to iron-cold, yet Túrin had been noble and generous, and had there been no curse upon his family, Beleg thought no greater Man would have bestrode the fair earth. So much that was good had been wasted by pride and hate, by the doom that lay on the house of Húrin.

As the grey light faded, Beleg unstoppered the wineskin and poured a cup. He raised it to salute it to the soul of one at last released from pain.

“O, Ilúvatar, only thou knowest the fate of Men. I pray thee take into thine arms one whose life was blighted by sorrow and vainglory.”  
Slowly he drank and then poured a libation onto the ground. “Rest in Light, beloved,” he whispered.  
Darkness settled its cloak about him, and he was alone in the wide night.

~~~

The Elves of Imladris avoided Maeglin. As his mother had foretold, they guessed whom he was, but as Elrond did not confirm it, they were forced to either ignore him or confront him – which would mean confronting Aredhel. No-one, it seemed, wished to do that, and so Maeglin had the unsettling impression, for the first few days, that he was invisible. When he had entered Gondolin, he had been welcomed by Turgon, loved as a son, given the highest honors and become lord of his own house.  
And he had betrayed Gondolin.

Elrond had not approached him since Glorfindel had lead him here, but his sons watched him with hard, brilliant eyes, observing without trust.  
Maeglin did not ask for trust. It was hard to imagine he could ever earn it, so he set himself to the task of learning the ways around Imladris.

The shards of Anguirel lay in a chest in his room. He knew perfectly well how to reforge it, but sensed the time was not yet.

He knew he was followed, as he crossed the narrow bridge that lead down toward the woods about the Bruinen. Had this been a city of Men, he would have been dead many times over, but Elves did not take the killing of their kin lightly, and he guessed, anyhow, that he was under Glorfindel's protection, at least until his task was done.

 _And then what?_ he wondered.

He did not hear his mother come up behind him, he smelled her fragrance and said without turning, “Thou needst not trouble thyself for my safety.”

“Nevertheless, I do.” She slipped her arm through his and they walked in silence for a time.

 _Was it Eöl?_ she asked, falling reflexively into the mind-speech they had used on Nan Elmoth, and now, where any might overhear, it was as imperative now as when they hid their conversations from Eöl.

 _I felt him,_ he responded after a moment. _But no, I will not blame him for what I did._

 _Good._ She threw him an approving smile. _I am glad thou dost not seek to apportion blame._

_Mother, I think thou canst never...reinstate me._

_Then thou doth underestimate both of us. There is such a thing as forgiveness._

He paused under the weave of branches, looked down at her.

_Is thine uncle forgiven?_

She arched her brows. _He does not ask for it._

 _How in the Iron Hells can he become High King so easily, when he must still be hated and mistrusted?_ he demanded.

 _Fëanor sees himself as High King and believes in himself utterly._ The tone of her mind was both amused and proud. _One day, thou shalt meet him and understand._

He shook his head briefly and they walked on, the sun, sliding light down the mountains to brighten the valley and burn in the foaming waters of the Bruinen.

An Elf was approaching the ford and seeing them, he halted. His hair shone in the morning like cloth-of-silver. Maeglin heard his mother's swift, indrawn breath. She detached her arm from the crook of his elbow and walked forward.

They faced each other across the river, and Beleg remembered the margins of Doriath, this woman with her escort, whom he must needs forbid entrance. She and those with her were not permitted within the Girdle of Melian.

He had never seen her again, but he and Mablung had succored Glorfindel and Ecthelion and Rog, who had fought the spiders of Nan Dungortheb and returned to Gondolin without Aredhel. Beleg had died before Gondolin's fall, but he had seen it in the Dark, while a voice whispered to him, mocking, that had he lead the Noldor through the enchantments of the Girdle, Aredhel would never have become lost, and never borne a son to Eöl, a son who would betray his own kin and bring down ruin upon the Hidden City. It had indeed pained him to deny her entry, but none of his duties were lightly undertaken.

“Lady Aredhel.” He bowed.

Her lovely eyes were wide with recognition, and something else which he could not interpret.

“Beleg Cúthalion,” she said.

His eyes went beyond her, to one whom he did not know, but it did not require any great feat of guesswork to realize whom he must be.  
 _Something is happening here,_ he thought, before his attention was caught by the two tall warriors striding from the woods. Those woods, he had thought on seeing them, were something the Elves could use to their advantage should any enemy cross the ford; they would provide excellent cover for archers.  
But it was the warriors who captured his eyes. They were so very alike that he guessed only long knowledge and proximity would allow one to tell them apart. And they were beautiful. He saw in them the haughty bones of the Finwions', but also the incandescence of Lúthien. It had not been difficult for Círdan to describe these twins. They raised their hands to their breasts as one and one of them said:  
“You stand on the borders of Imladris, Beleg Cúthalion, and are welcome here. Glorfindel sent us word of your coming. I am Elladan, son of Elrond.”

“And I am Elrohir,” the other gestured. “Be pleased to cross.”

~~~

Cell looked over her shoulder, smiling as she tied the long robe together. She had never worn such clothes, especially to sleep in. In Angmar, one slept naked under piles of furs. Carreg by his expression, appreciated watching her robe and disrobe, and when they lay together at night, she felt him harden but he would not force her until all the pain in her private parts had faded. She was grateful for his consideration, but was as hungry as he and eager to resume relations in this place where she had nothing to do but rest and tend to their son. Not that she intended to do nothing. A spindle had been brought into the next chamber, and one of the twins had shown her the still-room where herbs and unguents were made. This interested her greatly and she was told she might gather plants, and would be guided to where they grew when she had recuperated. There was one stipulation: she must not leave the valley unescorted. Carreg and Ness had already been shown around the borders, and spoke of joining the Elves to scout the lands beyond, but they were young men and warriors. Cell, absorbed in her first child, did not need telling, but she attended to the warnings, so she might pass them on to her son when he grew and began to walk. As for the rest...she pulled a comb through her hair, thoughtfully. There was no denying she would have felt more at ease were there more Mortals here, and if her father were to drink himself to death she would not be unhappy. She forebode that he would bring trouble to this peaceful place, although she could not imagine how. But he was a fearful man and a coward, and the combination was dangerous.

Carreg lay back against the down-filled pillows and smiled lazily.  
“Our son sleeps, come back to bed, it is early yet.”

“One of these mornings I will,” she promised. “But you know he will wake and demand to be fed as soon as I join you.”

“Then I will watch you feed him,” he smiled in a way that sent an ache through her loins, though she laughed and walked into the adjoining chamber to heat ale for him. He drew her down to kiss her lingeringly before sitting up to drink, and Túrin gave a cry. It was a strange sound which brought Cell to his crib. His eyes were wide, there were no tears and again he made that little chirruping sound, like a bird. She picked him up with a smile.

“Greeting the day with a smile, little one?” she kissed the top of his head.

~~~

“...And so, I decided to come here, perhaps to spend some time learning of the last ages,” Beleg finished.

Elrond said: “You are most welcome here. Perhaps Glorfindel told you that I will be leaving here next autumn? My wife is in Aman.”

“So I was given to understand, Lord Elrond, and that thy sons will remain here. ”

“As our father says, you are welcome, more than welcome, Lord Beleg.” Elrohir's voice was warm, and his twin's smile echoed it.

The rain-colored eyes danced. “I was never a _lord,_ my lord.”

They laughed, and Elladan said: “You sired two kings, nevertheless.”

“And I am proud of them. I loved my sons, but I could not know how they would view me when I saw them again.” The amusement drained away and there was silence in the room. From outside a robin called, sharp and musical.  
Beleg had a most beautiful voice, Elladan thought. It was an antique tongue, lush with rich words. Seeing the sorrow on his countenance, he wished he might break his promise to Glorfindel and speak of Túrin.

 _Thou wilt not need to,_ Glorfindel had said.

“They surely loved you,” Elrond spoke softly. “Love must be sorely tested ere it turns to hate.”

“So it would seem,” Beleg responded. Elrond understood very well and a look of anger shivered across his countenance.

“The lady Aredhel and...Dûrion are our guests,” he said with a flatness that bespoke hard control.

“Knowest thou why I chose to carry Anglachel?” Beleg asked obliquely, and then paused and went on. “I knew Eöl. He was a man of dark moods; driven, proud, but not evil. He was even happy, before the peace of Beleriand was shattered, although he was wrong to blame the _Golodhrim_ for rousing Morgoth. The Nandor lost their lord to the forces of Angband before ever Fëanor burned the ships at Losgar or Fingolfin crossed the Grinding Ice. He was a brilliant smith and I believed his sword would serve me well.” His smile was wry, a deliberate overlay to heartache. “But I cannot believe I was advised to come to Imladris because Anglachel was brought here.” As he spoke he watched the quick flicker of a look between the twins, the rigidity of Elrond's face. He felt, quite unexpectedly a shudder through his entire body; it churned in his stomach, flushed into his face.

“Was I? ” He unlocked one hand from it's grip upon the carved arm of the settle and lifted it, palm up.

“Of course I was,” he answered his own question. “There is no discontinuity, is there?”

“Thy coming here is important,” Elrond answered him, and this time Beleg heard a different note in his voice: compassion. He wondered at it.

“There are old wrongs to be set aright. Glorfindel was told by Irmo that this is far beyond the powers of the Valar. The One himself has set this in motion. Maeglin...has been brought here to reforge Anglachel, which was after called Gurthang.”

Beleg watched his hand clench into a fist. He lowered it.  
“The tragedy of Húrin Thalion and his family cannot be set aright, Lord Elrond.” He saw secrets behind their eyes, even as he had in those of Glorfindel and Legolas, and even Círdan.

“We cannot know what the One plans,” Elrond returned. “We cannot even comprehend Him.”

“Once we did,” Beleg refuted. “I felt His presence and His love, before we knew ought of the Valar and Aman. They did have power and they _knew_ what happened on Middle-earth.” He came to his feet. “Thou may believe Túrin doomed himself, and he made ill choices, but by the Hells, I tell thee Morgoth's curse lay heavy on him, and he could _never_ have escaped it. And his grief and guilt denied him peace for thousands of years !” He turned away so they would not see his face. “At least he has that now.”

He looked out of the wide window, at the snowdrops in white drifts under the old apple trees, stark and delicate under the sun. A man and woman were walking along one of the paths and he saw, with surprise that they were Mortal, until he recollected Círdan telling him that Imladris had long fostered Men. He felt some-one at his shoulder: one of the twins.

“They are of Angmar. It lies north and west of us, an evil place. After the war, orcs returned to it. Some of the people escaped. We are sending out scouts to see if any more fled and survived the winter.”

“I am reminded how little I know, and how much I have to learn,” Beleg murmured. “And I ask thee: Why is Anglachel to be reforged?”  
As the Man and Woman turned toward the house, he saw they were very young, and the woman held a babe strapped to her breast. He stopped breathing for a moment, heard the thud of his heart.

“Truly, we do not know.”

Beleg heard him, but all his attention was locked upon the young couple.  
“Have they Edain blood, these folk of Angmar?” he asked.

“They are of Númenorean blood, sprung from the Edain, yes. I am told they look very like.”

Beleg slowly let out his cramped breath and turned to Elladan, was it? Elrohir?

“How strange to see faces that hold a likeness to those long dead.” He essayed a smile. “I accept thou knowest not why Anglachel is to be reforged, or why I am here.”

“Father,” the twin said quickly and Elrond moved, pushed back the doors.

Carreg and Cell fell silent as they approached, he bowing and she dipping a courtesy. Elrond gave their names and told of how they had come here.

“Thou art strong and courageous to have come so far in the winter. The One must have guided and protected thee,” Beleg said kindly. “And carrying a child.” He looked at the tiny head with it's faint smudge of dark hair, cheek laid against his mother's chest and smiled.

“What is his name, lady?”

The woman whose face bore the same beauty as Túrin's had, inherited from Morwen Eledhwen, said: “I named him Túrin, lord.”

And the child opened his great dark eyes.~

~~~


	30. ~ Complexities of Kinship ~

  
_~ I am busy,_ he snapped at the presence in his mind. Since they were traveling on different vessels — which Fingolfin thanked Eru for — Fëanor seemed to think it was incumbent upon him to apprise his half-brother of every detail and plan, to tease him. To flirt.  
Fingolfin found he had clamped his teeth together. He forced himself to relax.

The fleet moved south, chased by a brisk north-west wind which slapped whitecaps from the wave-crests. They were a sennight out of Mithlond, with a long journey still ahead of them. It was not that he or any of them were bored; no Elf suffered boredom in the way Men did, but the confines of a ship did not suit the restless Noldor.  
There was a fascination and beauty to the ocean, however. Wild and unpredictable, Fingolfin could watch it for hours and comprehend the Teleri love of it; a force that might not be commanded, only respected. But there was that in him, in all of them, that needed to use his own body and energy to travel, to put down roots upon earth and stone, to build and leave one's mark. He was planning his own mansion in delicate strokes, adding numbers for length and height, notations on what stone he would use, when Fëanor unceremoniously entered his mind.

_Thou shalt have chambers in the palace, naturally._

Fingolfin was annoyed with himself for allowing his thought to be so easily accessible. He frowned, fingers tightening on the quill-pen.  
Of course, that would be politically sensible. He and Glorfindel were buttressing Fëanor's rulership (initially at least) it made sense for him to have guest-rooms. Fëanor was astute enough to know how vital was their support, much though it might irk him.  
But this was not only about politics. His brother had other agendas, and was not the least embarrassed by them.

 _Certainly,_ he replied coolly. _Did I mention I was busy?_

_Thou doth miss my presence. Admit it._

Fingolfin swore.

 _I want to see thy plans,_ Fëanor said. _I am coming aboard._

Fingolfin was no sailor, but he knew that the only way to board another ship at sea was to come alongside and for both to hove to. They were making good speed, the sea was choppy, and they had decided not to stop save at islands where they might find fresh water and game, unless there were pressing need.

 _We will not stop,_ Fëanor assured him and Fingolfin cursed again and left his cabin.

He was not traveling with his sons; they had their own households and duties, and he could reach out and touch their minds when he wished, as they could touch him, and frequently did. But Fingolfin did not want to admit, even to himself, that he had so long yearned for his half-brothers vivid, flashing presence in his mind that he waited for it, basked in it when it came. He would not initiate communication unless it were urgent, as he had not in Tirion, which had both angered and amused Fëanor.  
 _And they call me proud,_ he had mocked.

Fingolfin's chief captain, Lord Glasinnas, joined him as he came above-decks. The two had known one another since they were young and were close, although Fingolfin would never have put him in the unenviable position of confidante. He would ask no-one to bear such a burden.  
Glasinnas had outlived his lord, dying in the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad, but had approached Fingolfin on the beaches of Aman, gone down on one knee and swore he would serve no other prince. Now he said: “Sire?”

“My brother is visiting us,” Fingolfin told him dryly.

Fëanor's ship was in the lead, sweeping across the sea like a smooth-running stallion, with Fingolfin's and Glorfindel's vessels flanking it and a little behind, like an arrowhead. From above, it would be a magnificent sight, this great white-sailed fleet forging its way south.

The _Star Hawk_ was slowing. Fingolfin could see some of the sails being trimmed, and his own vessel was shortening the gap between the ships. He shook his head as he saw Fëanor appear, standing on the rail, and ran to the wheel-deck where the captain stood, hands responsive as a lover's to each movement of the ship. 

“He is going to jump aboard. Canst thou take her ahead?”

“Assuredly, my lord.” The answer was offered with a smile. “We have a good wind, the skill lies in maintaining our present speed, not in increasing it.” He called out for the crew to put up more sail.

Fingolfin thanked him, and took a long look at his brother's ship.  
 _Fool !_ he flashed, and then watched, as all the Elves did as Fëanor began to run along the narrow rail, easily jumping coils of rope. As he came to the stays, he leaped, curling one hand about the rope, using his momentum to swing out over the water, back onto the polished wood and straight into a run without pause. And as the Silver Cloud passed the Star Hawk in a slice of spume and roar of water, Fëanor jumped the seething gap effortlessly, and landed on the deck. Fingolfin stepped forward and caught him against his chest.

Fëanor was laughing as he stood back.

“Very kingly,” Fingolfin said dampeningly, fighting to keep his face stern.

“Exhilarating.” Clapping Fingolfin on the shoulder, his brother went on, “I told thee we would not stop. Let us have some wine.”

Fingolfin's chamberer placed wine on the table before withdrawing with a bow.

“Thy servants do not like me.” Fëanor sat back and drank.

“Thou wert always so perceptive.” Fingolfin looked up from pouring his cup full. “Sometimes I would swear thou dost forget thine offenses against our people.”

“I do not forget.” The reply slipped gently down into sobriety. “I did what I did. But I will be their king. I will not suffer disrespect.”

“Thou wilt never be disrespected,” Fingolfin told him. “But thou canst not change distrust and pain easily, not even thou.”

“They view me as I viewed Melkor. That is...poetic.” Fëanor's eyes captured the lucent dance of the sea. “I am glad to see they do not disrespect _thee_ for thy loyalty to me. Glad, but not surprised. How dost thou do it, my Nolofinwë? Thou hast always been loved.”

“Perhaps I am easier to love than thou art,” Fingolfin smiled mock-sweetly and heard his half-brother's rich laughter.

“That is undeniably true.”

“I love my people. Thy love was more narrowly focused.”

Fëanor shrugged. “And that is also true.”

“Why didst thou come?” Fingolfin asked.

“Perhaps I simply wished to speak with thee, to see thee.”

“We converse daily.”

“I want to see thy plans,” The glittering eyes hardened into opacity.

“Of course.” Fingolfin rose and went to the small table set under the porthole. Fëanor leaned against his shoulder as he studied it, comparing it with the map beneath, showing the terrain and distances.

“Two and a half leagues away?”

“We agreed on this – thy household and lords are free to build where they will, but I think they will occupy the same area as those they serve.” Fingolfin indicated areas about the great lake and toward the ancient forest which lapped the ankles of the great mountains.

It would not be a copy of Tirion, this place, even Turgon, whose Gondolin had been magnificent, did not wish to replicate it, and neither could he; the new Cuiviénen did not lend itself to hidden cities. This would be a place of villas and palaces within acres of woodland and meadows, spacious, connected by white-paved roads. It would be a monumental task – and all of them were eager to begin.  
Fëanor slipped an arm about Fingolfin's waist, a casual gesture of affection in any-one else. Fingolfin stiffened, glanced aside at the beautiful, fierce profile, but made no effort to disengage. His brother was extravagantly tactile; all the Finwions' were, but in Tirion, Fingolfin had been forced to master his own impulse to touch, to caress. Their forbidden relationship depended on secrecy, thus he could only express himself when they were alone. And now it was imperative that he did not encourage any further intimacy unless he were willing to deal with all that must inevitably follow. To pull away, or to respond were both actions, to effect to ignore this embrace was inaction and therefore, he judged, the safest option.

“I did wish to see thee.” The words brought Fingolfin's eyes back. “I saw thy death too many times. _What dost thou intend, to challenge him in single combat?_ ” he quoted.

“And I know thou wouldst have.”

“He did not want to face me.”

“I wonder why?”

Fëanor looked grimly amused, but the hate under it was a furnace.  
“Perhaps he thought there was a certain elegance in having demons of fire slay one called the Spirit of Fire. But _thou_ didst meet him. I heard prophecy in thy words, but I believed it was for me.”

“Sometimes, during the long peace, I laughed.” Fingolfin turned to face him, felt the long fingers settle on his hip. “Some things gave me happiness. I did not know that after my death I would be shown thine, thy sons, and mine...I did not know the worse was to come.”

“I know,” Fëanor murmured and, “I understand.” His hand moved to cup Fingolfin's head. He drew it toward him and kissed his brow, light and sweet and hot. “And so, thou knowest why I need to see thee.”

“We all need to see one another.”

“A nice parry.” The brilliant eyes danced. “And that brings me to one of the things I would speak with thee about.”

“Let no-one tell me thou hast not changed. When didst thou ever heed any-one but thyself?”

“Oh, very droll.” Fëanor leaned against the table and held out his cup.  
“It is true, we do need to see one another. Whatever lies in the past can better be resolved that way.”

Fingolfin refilled both goblets. “I am not sure some things can ever be resolved. Thy coronation would be an excellent time for thee to address _what lies in the past._ Let our people know thou doth repent, that thou wilt rule them well.”

“I intend to address it, and I will rule them well, whatever reservations they may have. But that is not what I wish to speak of now.”

“Thy sons then? Fëanor, thou art not responsible for their actions. Only one as arrogant as thou would shoulder that blame.”

“I am responsible for the Oath.”

“No-one forced them to take it,” Fingolfin flashed back. “I was there! I saw it! Not one moment did they hesitate!”

“No.” The fire banked itself a little. “Beloved fools, all of them.”

“Yes, that is what lies of the heart of their actions. Love of thee.” Fingolfin drank and gestured with his cup. “What art thou thinking?”

“Of Celegorm. In Nargothrond.”

  
Fingolfin was silent a long while after Fëanor had spoken. The sea roared like a sluice against the sides of the ship, a constant sound which they had become accustomed to. It caressed their dreams, rushed against their waking minds, insistent, unchanging.

“I spoke to Finrod before we left Aman,” he said eventually. “And I knew something troubled him in Beleriand. Of course,” he added, matter-of-factly, “I died before he did. I saw what they did in Nargothrond – Celegorm and Curufin. I was shown it.” He stared back into memory. “Why should Finrod return to Middle-earth? Do I not know how he must feel?”

“And how dost thou feel?”

The silver-blue eyes flashed up, and Fingolfin's hand tightened about the goblet as if he were about to fling the wine into Fëanor's face.  
“What does this have to do with me?”

“Thou didst love me, and I betrayed thee. And yet, thou art here. There are similarities.”

“I owe it to my people to give them a life of liberty and freedom,” Fingolfin said evenly, but Fëanor watched the faint bloom of color along his cheeks and leaned forward to touch the stain.

“Exquisite – thou truly art.” His voice came deep and warm, and he felt the _frisson_ which swept through his brother; a lightning strike.

“ _No,_ ” Fingolfin enunciated, meeting his eyes.

“But _yes._ ”

“This is not the place to play thy games!”

“Indeed, who knows, thou might surrender to me, and then the whole ship would hear.”

“What dost thou _want?_ ” Fingolfin came to his feet, coiled like a war-hound ready to leap, and Fëanor watched him with deep appreciation.

“Thou knowest what I want.” And he laughed, hard under his breeches. “ _Listen,_ for thou canst understand. Wouldst thou have been happy and content in Aman, now all is changed...without me?” He lifted a hand. “I am not about to initiate a seduction. I simply want the truth.”

Fingolfin's breast lifted and fell in a deep breath. He did not try to evade.  
“No, damn thee. Art thou saying Finrod will not be happy in Tirion? Celegorm did not even have the grace to go to him. Should Finrod then trail at his heels like a pup after the injuries done to him?”

“And yet, here thou art.”

Fingolfin's eyes snapped star-fire. “I am no pup, brother! And neither is Finrod !”

“I want thee to ask Glorfindel to speak to his brother. Celegorm has spoken to him, but it ended as one would expect.”

Fingolfin turned away. “Why dost _thou_ not ask Glorfindel?”

“If I have to I will, but he trusts thee more. He is more likely to listen to thee. He supports my rule, but he bears me no love.”

Fingolfin's wide shoulders lifted.  
“Does that surprise thee? And our new haven needs no more contention. No doubt he knows his brother's heart better than any of us.”

“I am thinking of my son, and also, believe me or no, Finrod. Those who remain in Aman are mostly those who find our taste in other men abhorrent. Finrod would find little sympathy there.” Fëanor stepped up and settled his hands on Fingolfin's hips, drawing him back. “Nothing is ever ended, Nolofinwë.”

“Enough. I will ask Glorfindel. We are to halt for fresh water in a few days.”

Fëanor buried his face in the silken hair. “ _'Enough!'_ thou didst plead with me, and then cry: _'Do not stop!'_...” He felt the quiver of response and drew back, knowing very well how to leave the water simmering. Hunger ached in his loins, but this was not the place to attempt to assuage it. Fingolfin's personal servant would be standing outside the door. His fingers drifted down to stroke the hardness his touch and words had evoked, and then he drew away.

“Art thou done?”

“For now.” Fëanor paused at the door.

“Hold. How do Maglor and Istelion go on?”

“No-one has been thrown over the side yet.”

Fingolfin laughed reluctantly. “I think we are all quite mad, brother.”

Fëanor blazed a smile at him. “I have no doubt of that at all.”

~~~

Celegorm would have been infuriated had he known what his father had done. Wavering between rage at Finrod for his damned stubborn pride – and he could imagine the aloofness of his alabaster face so very well! Finrod was a master at assuming an unapproachable, distant mien – and his own, he snarled at Curufin's attempts to convince him that he was better off without the presence of their disloyal cousin. He tried to occupy himself with plans, and was genuinely interested in the sea creatures one could espy from the ship, but neither could hold his attention long before his thoughts strayed to Finrod. Curse him! The milkiness of Tirion would suit him, he whom had managed to avoid the torment of the Void, been re-born, married, lived according to the Laws, impervious to passion as a marble statue.

The lamp flickered as if in reproach. He slid his hands across his eyes and swore imaginatively. Lying to oneself was hardly satisfying.

  
Finrod had wept when the news came of Fingolfin's death. Not before his court but when he was alone.

It had been a long, bitter winter. The news came in snatches: a cry heard in the mind, pain searing through a body which bore no wound, the essence of a life sewn familiarly into one's own spirit torn away, leaving the knowledge of death. The hawks came, cylinders bearing hasty notes about their legs, flying through the gore crows of Angband, who were huge and bloated and stank of dead flesh.  
A winter of fire. A winter of death.

Finrod had felt his brothers die in Dorthonion, and learned of it later from Barahir, whose men helped his retreat from the Fen of Serech. Perhaps the Man wondered at his lack of response, but Finrod had grieved as he felt bright Aegnor and Angrod pass from the world, taking their agony into himself, sharing their last moments in wordless love and anguish.  
Then came news of Fingolfin's gallant, mad challenge of Morgoth, his wounding of the Enemy, his hard dying.

Very high up above the River Narog, a gallery looked out over the gorge toward the hills where Andram, the Long Wall, rose. When delving Nargothrond, Finrod had taken council with the Dwarves, who also planned the light-wells which allowed daylight to penetrate into the fortress without compromising its safety. They had had carved it out of the rock, while Finrod had shaped the delicate tracery of the windows. As there was no bridge across Narog, and the gallery looked out upon a sheer drop, Finrod deemed the danger minimal. Indeed, it was never used to gain entrance to the city.

It became Celegorm's habit to join Finrod there in the evening. The king had showed him the way not long after the Fëanorions' had arrived with their people. It was Finrod's private place, where he would walk to be alone with his thoughts.

Sound carried strangely through the passages and ventilation shafts of Nargothrond. As Celegorm ascended the stairs, he heard the sound of weeping, voices raised in curses against Morgoth. They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, like the cries of souls lost in unending Night.

 _Oh, father!_ He paused for a moment and wrestled the visions away, taking a long breath before continuing his climb.

To challenge Morgoth to single combat? That was an act of glorious madness, one his father would have appreciated. Celegorm could honor it. More than honor it, were he to be truthful.

The only way to the gallery was through one of Finrod's private chambers. These were empty, and Celegorm saw one of the doors unbarred. He opened it silently on oiled hinges.

The spring sun frosted Finrod with pale gold. He had discarded his tunic, and the diaphanous shirt clung like mist against his torso. His hands clasped the worked stone hard, light flashing from his jeweled hair, the tears on his cheeks. He did not try to hide them as he turned his head.

“Shall I go?” Celegorm asked with rare gentleness.

“No, why? I am not ashamed to weep for him.” Finrod released his grip.

“Thou didst not weep in the hall.”

“As thou wouldst not.”

“No more would I.”

A ruler must be as a foundation-stone for his people. Finrod exuded a calmness grounded in great strength, and Celegorm longed to shake him from that marble serenity.

“We wept when my father died. And we have wept for him many times since then.” He looked out toward Amon Eithir, in shade now.

“Finwë, Fëanor, and now Fingolfin. Two of my brothers, Eru alone knows how many we have lost.” Finrod said. “Whom can doubt the doom that lies on us?”

Celegorm bowed his head against a spray of cold stone.  
“Morgoth surprised us – we were too sanguine. Maedhros said we were not enough, even with the Men, to strike at Angband, and he was right.” He felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, and hissed, “I think of my father all the time! I cannot – will not! – let myself believe he is gone into Night.”

“I cannot believe Eru would punish his children thus,” Finrod said.

“What do we know of the One?”

“He gave us the ability to love.”

“Love.” Celegorm raised his head and looked at his cousin. A thin evening breeze had sprung up, whispering through the arches, fluttering the loose tendrils of Finrod's hair.  
“Who gave us the ability to hate and destroy, then? Morgoth?”

“So Men say – some of those who passed East, fleeing from a darkness in their earliest days. But I wonder – would we know love if we could not hate? And would we so appreciate beauty had we not seen ugliness? Dost thou not feel _life_ more, here in Middle-earth than thou didst in Valinor?”

“Thou wert always a deep thinker, coz'.” Celegorm smiled, reached out to touch one of the pearls wound into that cream-gilt hair. “Yes, I do feel life more here. Love, hate. Thou shouldst hate me.”

“I fear I am not skilled in hatred,” Finrod replied evenly. “We spoke of this long ago. I do not wish to hate my kin. There are others more deserving of it.”

“Oh, sweet prince.” Celegorm laughed “Thou art too good, truly, sometimes I think thou shouldst have gone from Tirion to sit at the feet of the cursed Valar with Ingwë.”

“Thou doth misjudge me.” Finrod's voice was unusually stern. “I wanted to come. And we can still defeat Morgoth. We have to.” he ended, “We have no choice.”

He moved away to a table where a jug of wine and cups were set. A stone seat jutted from the inner wall, and a few dead leaves had found their way on to it, lending a strange air of abandonment to the place. Celegorm brushed them away. Two cups, he noted. Since he had begun to join his cousin here, there were always two. The wine was light and sparkling, tasting of elder-flowers.

“Barad Eithel will hold,” Finrod said. “What of Himring?”

“Himring will hold,” Celegorm said harshly. “Morgoth erred if he wished to besiege Barad Eithel or Himring. It is upon a bare hill, there are no trees and if there had been the fires he sent down would have burned them, as they did the forests of Dorthonion and the Ered Wethrin.”

Finrod bent his head in agreement, raised his cup. “I pledge thee Fingolfin: his life — and his death. Surely none of the _Eruhíni_ has ever struck the Enemy such a blow. Or ever will again.” His voice shook, and he steadied it by drinking deep.

“Fingolfin,” Celegorm repeated gravely.

“First we hold,” his cousin set the empty goblet down with a clink. “Then we push back.”

“As thou sayest. And let that time come soon !”

Finrod stepped forward, an alien intensity in his eyes.  
“Do nothing foolish.” he made the words a command. “I will not lose thee.”

“If Maedhros calls me — Hells, I have lost my lands!”

“But the women, the children, the husbandmen and craftsmen, all are safe _here._ Thy lands have been despoiled!”

“I would not risk them. But if my brother has need of me I will go!”

Finrod caught him by the shoulders. “Maedhros is too wise a commander to risk thee until the tide out of Angband is stemmed.”

Celegorm closed his eyes against the temptation of Finrod's lovely mouth.  
“There is a dark power over the north,” he said into the blood-tinged images behind his closed lids. “Sometimes I cannot hear them — my brothers... it is as if their minds are buried under the earth, under Morgoth's blackness...But I feel them here.” He opened his eyes and laid his hand flat over Finrod's heart. “I know they live. I am sorry,” he exclaimed as grief flashed over his cousin's face. “I came here to offer comfort.”

“And thou hast. I dreaded feeling thine own death. For I would have.”

_And I would have felt thine!_

Finrod moved into his arms. They held one another, pressed close, and closer still. A tumble of emotions cascaded through Celegorm's mind to his cousin's, from Finrod's to his, broken words, jagged feelings...  
 _I will not lose thee,_  
Open to me!  
Hold me!  
I will not leave thee!  
Kiss me...

His mouth sought the smooth skin under Finrod's ear. He felt the throb of the pulse there, and _there,_ beating tumultuously in his throat. Fingers delved through his hair, dug into his back.

He was like...he was like the hot posset Celegorm had been permitted to drink as a youth; rich and soothing yet with an underlying potency to it which fanned into the blood and rose to the head. Their mouths breathed sweet fumes into one another, lips striving, parting. Finrod's response was so long anticipated, but never had Celegorm believed he would be so eager, and his body and soul alike flashed into triumphant flame. For a moment there was nothing but the two of them, in this high place, divorced from war and grief, Finrod's barriers crumbling at the touch of his lips and hands. He jerked Celegorm against him, making catlike moans of pleasure and desperation.  
Half-hard before even touching his cousin, Celegorm now burgeoned to a state of pain, and he was not alone. He thrust against Finrod's sex, gasped out the exquisite torment, heard the reciprocal groan.

Finrod was so _luscious,_ so much more than even his imagination could have painted. He forced himself to draw back a moment, just to see the bright arousal of the face, the blood-flushed lips, disheveled creamy hair. His eyes were closed, but as Celegorm severed their frantic kissing, they opened, dazed and glittering.

“ _Eru,_ I have wanted thee!” Celegorm growled.

And Finrod said sharply: “Stop!”

~~~

Curufin neatly sidestepped to avoid the hurled silver goblet which was not aimed at him, but nonetheless almost struck his head as he opened the cabin door.

“Still in the sullens, then?”

“What is it?” Celegorm demanded.

“The lookouts have sighted land. Islands,” his brother informed him. “Thou may stay here and sulk, or come ashore. It might do thee some good.”

Celegorm slammed his hands down on the table and then came to his feet. “Oh, Hells, yes, I need to get off this damned ship!” He swept past Curufin and bounded up the narrow stairs.

~~~

 _Stop!_ he had said, when Celegorm gave him breath enough to speak, a moment to think – and Finrod wished he had not, for his mind had been freed to imagine his father and Amarië. He had made no promises to either of them, but after Glorfindel had disowned himself and taken a new name, Finrod had vowed to himself that he would cause no more divisions within their house. He would put away the forbidden attraction he felt for his cousin. If his father had been less inflexible, less condemnatory, he would not have felt the onus was on him to be the stainless, perfect son Finarfin wanted. He had never blamed Glorfindel, but he knew that Finarfin would never forgive him, believed that it was his duty to battle and defeat his unnatural desires. When it became clear Glorfindel felt no guilt, Finarfin had shut him out of his life and expunged his very name from the records.  
It had been Finrod who had gone to Námo and abdicated his dignity to plead for Glorfindel's re-birth.

He wondered now, looking out onto the chill perfection of his gardens, if his intercession had even been necessary, or only part of a greater, grander plan. Had any of the Valar known what Glorfindel would become, or had the One's will moved them to release him? It had been meant as a punishment, Glorfindel had told him, for how could he not feel rage, knowing the doom of those others cast into night – and guilt that he had been spared? And how could he not (though the words be bitter as aloes on his tongue) warn the Elves of Middle-earth of their fate if they transgressed?

_And I so nearly transgressed. I withheld through a misplaced sense of honor to a father who turned his face away when he learned of Glorfindel's death. Better I had broken my vows and fallen with those I loved!_

He turned at last to the one whom had come, judging the deliberate insult had been clear enough. Known for his beautiful manners, Finrod was surprised at how easy it was to show discourtesy.

Finarfin was dressed in silver-white. He had the features of his father, but the ice-blue eyes and fair hair were from Indis of the Vanyar.

“If thou follow thy brother and that cursed cousin of thine, I will never forgive thee,” he said.

Finrod's brows drew together. “Just as thou didst not forgive Glorfindel. Does it not give thee pause for thought, to know thou wert so very wrong?”

“I care not if these new _laws_ are writ upon the sky in letters of fire,” Finarfin hissed. “Knowest thou my brother and Fëanor were lovers? Here in Tirion?”

“So that is it.” Finrod stared at his father. He had wondered at Finarfin's silence on the subject of his blood-brother. _Half-brothers, lovers..._ He had not _known,_ but there were enough subtle clues for him to have wondered at the relationship, both before the Exile and in Beleriand; hints, dropped words, expressions crossing Fingolfin's face like cloud shadows.

“Our blood is tainted, Findaráto. All we can do is remain clean. As thou hast. Do not fall now.”

“Fall to _what?_ ”

“So easily thou doth believe the words of thy brother!” Finarfin bit.

“As I believed the words I heard from Gorthaur's son, yes, Sauron, who bested me in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. I had to die, did I not? because I had been tempted, and because _I did not believe in what I said! Could not believe the words I sang!_ ” Finrod flashed. “ _'Thou didst never understand the Eruhíni, for thou art not their Father! Thou knowest nothing of how they love or hate, comprehend not their grief or pain!'_ He said that: Gorthaurion. And he was _right!_ The grief of it is that any of us ever hearkened to them and believed their laws. It took courage to defy the Valar!”

“Thou shalt not go,” Finarfin stated flatly. “Thou shalt not shame me by running after the one who betrayed thee. Hast thou no pride?”

Finrod's cheeks flushed with temper. “Whom has dared to tell thee of these private matters?”

There was a movement in the arched doorway.  
Finrod's eyes widened in comprehension as Námo and Manwë entered the chamber. They were so changed he suffered a moment of shock. There was no glory about them now; he was reminded of ice sculptures melting under warm sun. There was nothing intangible about their forms, but they were...lessened, as if a glamor that had been over his eyes had faded.

“Thou didst defeat thy unholy lusts, and gave thy life for another.” Manwë's voice was as remote as his high, cold winds. “But it came very close. Thou art tarnished, but time and meditation will cleanse thee.”

Finrod stared at them with unblinking scorn. “Thou art crude in thy dealings. I did not go to my traitorous cousin when he came here, and the only reason I wish to meet with him again is to put my fist between his eyes! But _if_ I wished to leave Valinor, none would prevent me.”

“I feel it my duty to disabuse thee.” Manwë smiled, tight and oily. “We have power enough in Aman to prevent thee from leaving.”

“Thou hast no authority over me, or any Elf,” Finrod challenged.

“Thy father is loyal. We would not see him suffer more pain. Of course, thou couldst bleat for thy brother...”

A brilliant light flashed before Finrod's eyes. He realized, as from somewhere distant, that it was rage.  
“Thou wouldst have them stop me?” he asked Finarfin in disbelief.

“I will not see my name soiled further.”

“ _Thy name?_ ” he cried through the veil of fire about his heart. “How have thy children soiled thy name? Glorfindel sacrificed himself to save the remnant of the Gondolindrim, and returned to Middle-earth to fight the growing Shadow. Angrod and Aegnor died in the Dagor Bragollach, my sister labored agelong in defense. Thou didst remain in Valinor, but thy children strove against the Dark! Is that all we were to thee, as we were to the Valar? Ornaments to be set on display? Copies of _thee?_ ”  
The air thickened about him, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose. He felt, in his mind, Glorfindel's question.

_No brother, it is well, I can deal with this._

“I ask this, father,” he said aloud. “Dost thou _love_ us?”

“A foolish question,” Finarfin responded curtly, and there was no expression in his face, none at all.

“Yet thou didst not come with us into Exile. We pleaded with thee to. All believed it was because of thy sorrow and horror at the kinslaying – but was it truly? Or couldst thou not bear to see the Noldor free in a world the Valar had long abandoned, living by their own laws and loving who they wouldst, in fulfillment and joy?”

Finarfin's blow landed hard across his face.

“Leave him to us, Arafinwë,” Manwë said. “He was guilty when he faced Gorthaur in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. His powers failed him. They will fail him now.”

And the Song* came down upon Finrod like shards of glass. ~

 

~~~

 

 

Beautiful Finrod by Jankolas on Deviant Art.

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eruhíni - children of Eru
> 
> *Finrod and Beren went forth from Nargothrond with ten companions, and when they came upon a company of orcs, slew them and took their weapons. It is said in the Silmarillion that 'By the arts of Felagund (Finrod) their forms and faces were changed into the likeness or orcs.'
> 
> However, passing Tol-in-Gaurhoth, which Finrod himself had built, and Sauron had captured and now dwelt in, (also where Vanimórë was born seven years before) they did not linger to report, and thus aroused Sauron's suspicions. The company were brought to him. 'Thus befell the contest of Sauron and Felagund which is renowned. For Felagund strove with Sauron in songs of Power, and the power of the King was very great,; but Sauron had the mastery. The Silmarillion. Of Beren and Lúthien.


	31. ~ Mosaic ~

The pines breathed aromatic comfort into his lungs. Dropped needles cushioned the soundless tread of his feet.  
He stopped at last, as he came out of the trees and looked down over Imladris. The sunlight touched a glazed window, the dance of a waterfall.

Beleg turned his head away, brows drawn together. Eastward, the Towers of Mist wore immaculate white to their breasts, but deep within him he sensed the darkness molded into their guts, a distant rumble of the malice that, it was said, had raised them long ago.

 _“Men do name their children after their ancestors, or Men of old,”_ one of the twins, Elrohir, he thought, had said to him, after he had retreated from the gardens.

As the woman had named her child, the baby had opened great eyes, dark as all newborns' were, and stared at him, folded lips parting to make a sound like a wood-dove, a soft _coo_ of pleasure.

It was as well the Peredhel had spoken, for Beleg could not. It had taken him a moment to recover and remember that yes, from what he recollected, Men did use names of other Men.

“How strange.” He heard his voice come distantly. “His parents names are not Sindarin.”

“No,” Elrohir agreed. “It is a corrupted form of Númenorean, with some words we think must be from the natives of the hills.”

Beleg wondered if this was what he had sensed, the secrets behind their eyes. Surely they would know that a child with the name _Túrin,_ would shake him, and thus had said nothing.

“I think I will walk,” he said, striving for calmness. “To those pine-woods, yonder.” He added, with a smile that took some effort. “I will not lose my way.”

 _I should go,_ he thought now, looking down into the valley. _I should cross the mountains and find my kin._

The Man's eyes...the woman's face...Túrin had inherited his father's eyes and his mother's features, it was said, and to Beleg it was like looking at familiar shapes in clouded glass. But then, these people were Edain, and though Túrin had never sired any children save the incestuous seed that had perished with Nienor, perhaps somehow, the blood of his people had endured through the Ages, as had Beren's.

Maeglin, called Dûrion, a sop to the intricacies of politics and ancient hatred. Anglachel, _Gurthang_...and a child called Túrin. It was as if a broken mosaic was slowly being repaired, but with new pieces as well as old.  
For some of the pieces must, perforce, be new; they could never be recovered.  
The edge of ancient sorrow never lost it's sharpness. But then, it did not seem ancient to him.

_Cúthalion._

The voice had that intimate quality of the mind. It was not Glorfindel's, nor was it composed of feelings and images, but was clear as if spoken directly to him. There was power behind it.

 _My father,_ the voice continued with a leavening of wryness. _named me Vanimórë._

 _I have heard of thee,_ Beleg returned, forcing composure upon himself.

_Stay in Imladris, though it pains thee. This matters._

_I see the pattern._

_And thou art part of it. Though I do not know how it will come together._

Beleg took a long breath and braced his shoulders. A strange scent wove through the the resinous pine and dead needles, something rich and exotic. It made him think of spices.

 _I think it takes one of thy kin to love those of us who demand so much, Cúthalion._ There was an odd gentleness in the tone. _Thou hast no reason to trust me, but thou canst trust the One._

Beleg sensed the presence fade from his mind, but for a moment, that alien fragrance lingered. From the bell-tower of the House of Elrond, a chime rang the noon hour.

“Very well,” he said aloud, shouldering an old grief.

~~~

He felt weighed down with history. It settled into his mind, filling the blank, dark spaces with voices and images: battles hurled blood into the earth, kingdoms rose, titanic and powerful, and fell with a roar that shook oceans. There was death and glory and love even as the shadows reached long over the lands, pushing the Elves into the West, back into the cage whose doors the Valar held wide.

He had not needed to read of his or Túrin's death, or the fall of Doriath, for he had seen them in his own prison of Night. Of course, he _had_ read. The words were set down with formal brevity, as if the scribe had only heard of the events and recorded them. But then, only Gwindor and Túrin had witnessed his own death, and none had seen Túrin or Nienor take their own lives. This account must have come down word of mouth from Nargothrond, or the Men of Brethil to Doriath, and thence to Arvernien. Túrin's frozen face, washed by lightning, burned under Beleg's closed eyelids as he sat back, and when he came to the slaying of Glaurung, he rose and walked to the balcony.

He returned to the books of history later, and sometimes the Peredhil would come and he questioned them, until after the manner of Elves, he could look into his memory and see the events as if they were trees lining a path leading back to the beginning, to the shores of Cuiviénen. He could not know it as had those who had lived that history, but now the had spanned the chasm of Ages with a bridge of knowledge.

  
He wove his hair back from his face, looking out over the dim gardens. He knew the valley and its immediate surroundings now, but he wished to go further, to familiarize himself with the lands about. The previous evening he had heard Elladan and Elrohir speaking of scouts sent out north and west to search for any who might have fled from Angmar.

He knew of Angmar now, both from the books in the library and from the Peredhil themselves, and he knew also how the land could absorb fear and evil and draw more to it. But the people? He had seen no evil in the two young men and woman who now dwelt here with the child. They were simply a young family come out of danger into a place of safety.

Since that first meeting however, Beleg had avoided them. He had been reading or speaking with Elrond and his sons and anyhow, it was a large house. He sensed though, that the Mortals were as yet uneasy here. Irresistibly, he thought of Túrin, whom had never felt uncomfortable in the company of Elves.

It was very quiet. A fountain poured, the sound stony and cold. There were lights here and there, gleaming softly behind drapes. Beleg leaned on the baluster, listening to the sounds of _minuial._ * He had rarely slept a night through in his old life. He took his rest as a warrior did, whenever he needed to, and he loved the stars. Túrin had sometimes joined him, laying his head on his lap, Beleg's fingers in his hair. It had been under the summer stars they had first made love. _And it was an act of love._  
Beleg had known it was too soon, the youth too young, and had berated himself for succumbing to the fierce, innocent lust. And Túrin had been unable to accept that such a union did not strip him of manliness. The stern pride of his mother, that had driven her to remain in Dor-lómin rather than become an alms-guest of Thingol, the fierce pride of his father, whom had defied Morgoth himself, were too evenly mixed in their son. Túrin had vivid memories of Húrin surrounded by armored men riding to battle, and could not imagine his sire or any of his warriors allowing another man inside them. The confusion of shame and guilt had driven him back to Doriath – and the fateful confrontation with Saeros.

 _I should have followed him then._  
Matters were simpler with hindsight.

Beleg looked up, jerking away from the memories. There were some stars showing now, through the dappled cloud cover, but soon that would spread and thicken. The smell of rain was on the air.

He jumped down from the balcony, leaned against an old apple, whose sap sighed languidly upward, rousing, but not yet energetic.

A sound like a small cat brought his eyes down. Lamplight burgeoned behind an arras, and after a moment the baby's hungry demand was muffled. A sweet pain touched Beleg's heart, remembering the wonder of his own children, and many others, the joy in seeing them grow.

After a time, the crying resumed. A shadow crossed the window, and then recrossed. The wail grew louder, and he wondered what was wrong. Elf-babies were far quieter. This one, he thought, sounded as petulant and demanding as his namesake. A sad, fond smile touched his mouth.

The arras was drawn back and the woman, heavily swathed against the night, stepped out. Beleg could only see a tiny head peeking out of the folds of the cloak, and that was covered by a little cap of soft wool. She was murmuring softly as she walked up and down the balcony in her own tongue and Beleg felt that moment when the words changed in his mind, reaching his understanding in Sindarin.

“Is he unwell?” he asked.

  
The Elf had come out of the darkness like a wraith, and Cell started. They moved with such silence that they could still surprise her, although she felt no fear of them. And this one carried a sense of sadness so ancient, that had she not believed it presumptuous, she would have embraced him. She had seen something else in his expression on that first day, also.

“He drank too deep, my lord,” she responded with a smile, but her dark eyes were smudged with weariness. “And now he pays for it. Did he wake you? I am sorry for it.”

“No, lady, I was awake, and the sound of a child was ever a joy to us. Yes, even a crying child. Look,” he murmured. “He is quiet now.”

And Túrin had indeed stopped crying. His little head, cupped by Cell's hand, had lifted a little to look at him.

“Perhaps I could sing to him,” he offered, not knowing why he did so, save that tenderness caught at his heart. “Then he can sleep and so canst thou, for I think thou doth need it.”

Cell laughed softly. “He is a night-owl, this one.” She turned to the open door. “Come in, my lord.”

“Call me Beleg, please.”

Carreg had woken when his son cried, but Cell had slid from his arms and told him to sleep, for he and Ness were to hunt in the morning. She had been snappish with weariness, and now she yawned in the warm room. The fire was still glowing, and she set a log upon it, and sat down in a high-backed chair.

“Thou couldst lie down, lady. If thou hast no objection, I will hold him and sing, as I did once to my sons.”

Cell looked longingly at the padded settle, and then back at the Elf. She was reminded of the old tales of Angmar, that these White Demons would take a baby and steal it away, leaving an old sack of poison ivy and dead leaves in it's place. But these were not the ghosts she had feared and dreamed of, their voices were not those she had heard on the bitter northern winds when every-one shuttered their homes against the restless dead. The Elf's eyes were lucent as dew and held kindness. After a moment, she carefully handed Túrin into his arms.  
He was accepted gently and expertly, lying back and looking up into Beleg's face. The door to the bedroom opened and Carreg came through, drowsy, naked and unembarrassed as he came to his wife's side. She said: “Lord Beleg will sing to him.” and sank down on the settle. Carreg joined her, pulling the woolen throw from the back of the settle and tucking it around her. She leaned against him as Beleg began to sing.

He sung a song of the Elves awakening, of the sound of waters, the touch of cool grass, stars like jewels in the crown of Ilúvatar. He sang of feeling the air and the earth and pulse of other hearts, and of the glory of _life_ , the welcome Arda gave the Firstborn. The child's eyes remained fixed on his face until slowly, the pale lids closed and he slept, lips parted like the unfurling buds of flowers.

Beleg drew the song to it's end and heard outside, the melodic trill of a thrush. Dawn had crept in, mild and grey. Carreg had drawn his wife down to rest, and held her in his arms. Their sleeping faces were as peaceful as the baby's. He rose silently, and passed into the bedchamber, and laid the child in the crib, then lifted the crib and carried it into the ante-room where he set it down close to settle. Gentle as a leaf falling, he touched Túrin's cheek, and then left the room. Rain was misting down, the clouds hung low over the valley.

What if the child grew to look like his namesake? How would it be to daily see one who looked like Túrin and was not? Was there a danger that he would try to make of this one a substitute? _No!_ he told himself with a quiver of anger. That would be unconscionable. This child shared only a name with his cursed, long- dead lover.  
He would have a different destiny.

~~~

“What wouldst thou do, my dear?” Vanimórë asked.

Elgalad, smiling, looked up at him. “About what, my l-lord?”

“Wouldst thou tell Beleg that the child in Imladris not only bears Túrin's name, but his soul?”

“Yes.” The answer was swift, impulsive. Then Elgalad hesitated and frowned. “But...”

“What?” Vanimórë paused. The road stretched emptily ahead of them. Although a few riders in the livery of Gondor and Rohan had passed them these last days, there was as yet little traffic.

“Even n-now there is no doom upon him, Túrin will d-die, as all Men do,” Elgalad said. “To know l-love again and then have it r-reft from one, forever? How could B-Beleg endure it?”

“How could any-one?” Vanimórë murmured, reaching out to draw his fingers down the white cheek and throat. Elgalad moved into his arms and breathed softly against warm skin.

“I had to bring _thee_ back – ”

Long lashes brushed against his neck, and he tipped up Elgalad's chin and kissed him wildness slipping into a furious eroticism which both sated his hunger and left him famished.

“My lord, I w-will _always_ be with th-thee!”

_He always knows, always hastens to fill my need, but he does not know how **much** I need!_

Vanimórë cupped Elgalad's face with both hands.

“He is like thee, Beleg.” His voice came out like clawed velvet. “Loving, loyal, strong. It would indeed be cruel for him to find Túrin again, to have him die, even if at the fullness of his years. I do not understand,” he admitted. “But Eru is not cruel. We should not meddle, but inaction does not suit me.”

“I w-would like to see Beleg,” Elgalad said, his breathing quickened by the kiss, eyes wide and brilliant.

“Thou shalt,” Vanimórë promised. “These are years of learning, my dear, and of traveling. I told thee, we will come back to the north.”

~~~

“It is very rough country,” Elladan said. “We cannot use horses north of the valley, it is a region of granite blocks and heather. But it is one of the reasons this valley was chosen, for no army can cross such terrain. It would go ill for any fleeing from Angmar who strayed into it, be they never so skilled in the laws of the wild, but they might not cross the Mitheithil.” His finger traced the river and Beleg said in his antique voice: “Dost thou think any would have survived?”

“Some did,” Elrohir murmured.

“They were fortunate. Or more.”

“Many were lost. I think it bears heavily on young Carreg.”

“Our scouts have reported nothing,” Elladan said. “And there are settlements of Dúnedain here.” He tapped the map. “They have seen naught this winter either.”

“If there is hope then we should certainly look,” Beleg said, and smiled his wonderful, grave smile. “Yes, I said _we._ For as long as I remain here, I would like to serve Imladris. And,” he added. “Thou art descended from Elwë, who was my King, and from Melian.”

“You do not _serve_ here.” Elladan rose. “You are our guest, and we are honored by your presence, and your company, if you wish to come with us.”

“As thou wilt,” Beleg smiled. “But a guest may perhaps be useful.”

The twins exchanged a look, and laughed softly.  
“I am sure you will be.”

~~~

The valley was quiet under the rain, and the one who leaned on the pillar of his balcony was so still Beleg did not disturb him. He passed without speaking, and then without truly knowing why, (an almost permanent state of mind, he thought with a flash of humor,) retraced his steps. There was a defensive arrogance to Maeglin which repelled overtures of friendship, but Beleg believed it hid a great deal of anger and, perhaps, self-loathing. It was something he was familiar with. Túrin had suffered black moods and guilt.

“I have heard,” he said quietly into the whisper of the falling rain. “that thou wert a courageous warrior.”

Maeglin's black brows rose. “Now where,” he wondered aloud. “would such an accolade come from?”

Beleg smiled. “I am leaving the valley with the sons of Elrond and other warriors to seek any sign of more survivors from Angmar. Perhaps thou wouldst consider coming?”

“The Peredhil would have something to say about that, I believe.”

“ _I_ am asking thee.”

Maeglin paused and looked at him curiously, then unfolded his arms which had been braced across his chest.  
“Why?”

“It would be a pity to waste thee.”

“Ah.” Maeglin laughed harshly, but there was an intrigued expression upon his face. “I admit, I would like to see the lands beyond,” and, silently. _I do have a mother prone to restlessness._

“Then come,” Beleg reached out a hand. “This is another life, Dûrion.”

Maeglin hesitated and then their hands met and clasped. “It is indeed,” he agreed. “Perhaps thou wouldst come and share wine with me?”

In the warm chamber, Maeglin mulled the wine, poured it and handed Beleg cup. Sitting back, he crossed one leg over the other and regarded his visitor curiously.

“I consider myself an intelligent person, but I can see of no reason for thee to befriend me,” he said straightforwardly.

“Dost thou not?” Beleg sipped and set his cup down on the table between them. His face was remote and beautiful in the gentle pulse of firelight. “Knowest thou what was behind Morgoth's curse on the house of Húrin? Hate. Hate destroyed too much. And I think thou doth hate thyself enough.”

Maeglin felt his ire rise. “Indeed? One supposes thou hast read of me in the histories these last days? I betrayed Gondolin out of _hatred_ – and thwarted lust.”

“Because thou art as susceptible as any-one to such feelings, and acted on them. I think thou art as capable of love as of hate. I have seen thee with the Lady Aredhel. I think it was not all lust. I think there was love.”

Maeglin raised his brows haughtily and then, seeing that Beleg was impervious, was regarding him with equanimity, flung out a hand and cursed.  
“Perhaps. They became entangled. I was offered Idril – and Glorfindel. I was jealous and ambitious and – ” He broke of abruptly, then went on. “There is no excuse. I wanted to be Turgon's heir, one way or another. And there was Glorfindel, like fire and gold...”

“Wouldst thou do the same again?” Beleg asked.

“I saw it,” Maeglin whispered. “I saw Gondolin fall, so many deaths...I knew Morgoth lied. But I was mad, then.”

“Thou art not mad now.”

A grim smile came.  
“I think all of us who were cursed unto the Void are a little mad, Beleg Cúthalion. And I also think we will be tested again.” ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *minuial (Sindarin) - The time before dawn when the stars fade.


	32. ~ Discordance ~

Maglor was glad to step from the rowing-boat onto the sand. He only wished this were their destination, not a pebble-scatter of islands in the vastness of the ocean.

The confines of a ship had the effect of both bringing the passengers together and separating them into small cabins, for which he was thankful, although the atmosphere was so tense it seeped through the wooden walls of the vessel and permeated everything. He had hoped Gil-galad and Vórimóro would be discreet at least, and it appeared they were, although it had occurred to him that Gil-galad had requested their company to provide an excuse for not taking Vórimóro to his bed. He doubtless enjoyed having a lover, but he was not _in love,_ and perhaps did not wish to feel pressured into anything permanent or binding. Vórimóro did not seem especially possessive, but he was clearly relishing the relationship, and had enough sense of mischief to revel in what bordered on public intimacy.

It was warmer. They had left the north on the brink of an early spring, but the ships had surged into the climes of summer, the sea washing shores where snow never fell.

Maglor had discarded his tunic and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. As he waded onto the beach he smiled, watching his brothers and father jump from the boats, or leap straight into the sea and swim ashore. The beach rose up not in cliffs but a slope scattered with spare grass. There were palm trees, which Maglor recognized from – he thought – his wanderings, but those memories were almost impossible for him to access, and he thrust them aside. Two deep gullies carried streams down to the beach, and, when Maglor tasted the water, he found it fresh.

Celegorm, who had carried his boots and now stamped into them, was carrying a longbow and quiver of arrows, and started up the slope with long, aggressive strides, the great braid of creamy hair swaying behind him. Curufin followed him with an air of exasperation.

 _Are these islands safe?_ Maglor turned to where Glorfindel was talking to Fëanor and Fingolfin.

 _Not any more,_ Glorfindel said dryly, but Maglor felt a bubble of mirth rise in him. His father must have heard, for his clear laugh rang out.

 _There are no dangerous native species, and no Men come here._ Glorfindel continued. _There were tribes here long ago, but the Númenoreans enslaved them, and they died out before the fall of that island._

There was nothing to say to that. Maglor turned and began to follow the course of the stream until he came to a place where he could off his clothes and wash. On long voyages seawater was used to bathe, and fresh for drinking. Even the most skilled mariner could not control the whims of the weather and might be becalmed for days, perforce having to row. Now Maglor and many others took advantage of the fresh water, tossing aside their shirts and breeches and unraveling their braids. The experienced Teleri mariners had been amused to see the flaunting Noldor manes whipped into tangled masses in the sea winds, and soon all were wearing their hair as they did in battle: plaited to fall down their backs. Maglor ducked his head and massaged his scalp, letting the fresh water swirl through it.  
Tindómion joined him silently and Maglor unbound his hair. There was a tension in his shoulders and he was looking to where Gil-galad and Vórimóro were standing some distance away. They were talking, it appeared, but in the silent manner, and after a moment, Tindómion turned away.

“It is pleasant,” Maglor remarked, to break the silence, which was too taut for his liking. “The sun and the warmth.”

His son nodded distractedly, then made an effort and smiled.

“It is good to break our journey,” he agreed. “I hope we may do so again. Eru alone knows how our Teleri kin bear it. Their ships are fine, but I often feel like walking straight off the deck, just to be _free_ of it, to move!”

“Well do I know that feeling,” Maglor laughed. “Celegorm and Curufin have gone to hunt. Perhaps thou couldst go with Gil.”

“Perhaps.”

This was uneven ground. Maglor wanted to advise his son not to avoid Gil-galad, but thought that, on this voyage, he should. A ship was no place for an explosive argument.

“A hunt?” Gil-galad said behind them, and Maglor looked at him with a frown, seeing Vórimóro's hand resting familiarly on his back.

“The two of us?” Tindómion cast back his wet hair. “Yes, why not?” His gaze clashed with Vórimóro's, and Maglor felt the force of it, that furious, fiery Fëanorian challenge.

“The four of us,” Gil-galad said with a glinting smile, accepting it.

  
It was still warm in the late afternoon.

The island was rocky, and the wild goats that dwelled here had left paths through the brush, but nothing else seemed to stir. Gil-galad speculated that the streams were the result of winter rains, and that had they landed here in the summer, they would have found only dry gullies.

“It is a harsh place.” Tindómion shielded his eyes. “There are goats, and the seas are rich. Men did survive here once. Underground aquifers perhaps.”

Maglor was thinking of the satisfaction it would afford him to slap the other three. Vórimóro was being too obvious, whether at Gil-galad's instigation or his own inner promptings. There was not the intensity in his eyes that there was in Tindómion's, but Maglor had observed that Vórimóro was more temperate by nature.

The strange thing was that Tindómion, although clearly jealous, did not seem to suspect that the two were lovers. Possibly he could not believe that Gil-galad wanted any-one but himself, or was so accustomed to denying his body's hungers that it he could not yet accept that no-one had to practice celibacy now. There was more to it of course: Tindómion, like many men who had never properly been in a relationship with another man, thought it must be a fight for supremacy, that if he surrendered, it would somehow undermine his masculinity. It was a matter of male pride. Fingolfin could have corrected his erroneous assumptions, as could Maedhros or Fingon, and Maglor himself, in Barad-dûr –  
 _No, that was different!_  
He slammed the memories away, thought he heard familiar, amused laughter.  
Tindómion he thought, trying to ignore the images which blossomed in it's wake, was entrenched in the stubborn impasse he had forced upon himself. He was willing to surrender to Gil-galad, if Gil-galad forced him to, and the prince did not see why he had to force one whom had loved him.  
Still loved him.  
Thus he considered hitting them – hard. And then he had to smile at himself in derision.

He felt a hand touch his arm and looked into his son's face. Gil-galad was walking on ahead, his companion very close.

“Thou art angry, father?” Tindómion asked.

“I will be, if thou doth not take thy place at Gil-galad's side!”

“ _Adar,_ ” his son smiled, a flashing, false smile. “I am not obtuse.”

Maglor stared into the eyes which were mirror images of his own – and truly mirrors now, opaque, permitting no emotions to pass their barrier.

_Gil-galad and I have been separated for a long time, but we know one another. I know what he is doing._

Maglor felt the pulse of jealous rage in his son's mind. It burned off Tindómion like fire. “And what dost _thou_ intend to do?” he asked cautiously.

“Well – killing Vórimóro would appear to be out of the question.”

“Do not speak so casually of killing thine own kin.” The threat of violence in Tindómion's eyes chilled Maglor. He had seen it before; he had felt it within himself.

“It was not casual.” He looked back at his father. “They are not together on board ship, and I intend to ensure they will never be together again. Why dost thou think I agreed to sail with him? Of course, I do not _know_ anything has passed between them, do I, _adar?_ And,” he added, through his teeth. “I have to convince myself that it has not.”

Gil-galad had paused, looking back. Tindómion turned away.

_Thou knowest how we live when those we love are gone. We cannot forget. I have heard Men say that time heals. And in them I have seen it. They are fortunate. Time does not heal for **us!** So we shut away the anguish lest we go mad – and sometimes that has no effect either, does it, father?_

Maglor's fingers locked on his son's arms. “I _had_ to remember. It was the only way to keep them with me.”

“Yes, there is no escape from that room is there? We would never want to forget but how could I live knowing Gil-galad was lost in the Void?”

“We cannot,” whispered Maglor who had been mad so long.

“I could not live _knowing_ he was with another. I know it is not unusual among the Silvan and Sindarin men, those who did not know the Laws or refused to believe them. I know there can be deep friendship and comfort yet no bonding, no great love. But...”

“I understand,” his father said quickly, and he did. Tindómion could not afford to let himself dwell on it. This was a stern exercise in self-control – and self-deceit.

“I know thou dost.” Tindómion searched his face. “This game we play...” He shook his head and said, “I made myself a master at it, after all.”

Gil-galad was still watching him, as father and son came up. Tindómion, without a word, without warning, kissed him, hard and brutally before walking on. Gil-galad stared after him, then glanced back at Maglor, and raised his brows.  
 _I would find it more amusing, had he not spoken of killing Vórimóro._ Maglor responded.

_He would not. He bore the stigma **Kinslayer blood** so long._

_There was no-one else vying for thee, then._

_He believed there was, and even now, there is not. Truly not._ Gil-galad looked at Maglor very straightly. _Faelfaer is a friend and a comfort, but I burn for thy son._

_And he burns for thee. Do not throw thy relationship with Vórimóro into his face, Gil. He is **forcing** himself to know nothing. But if thy bed-mate makes it too obvious, he will snap._

Gil-galad looked after Tindómion, watching the set of the wide shoulders, the anger in the long strides, the sun reddening the great braid of hair. He looked arrogant, bad-tempered and beautiful. Gil-galad smiled, even as he shook his head.

 _How wouldst thou react if he took a lover?_ Maglor asked.

_He may have. I was dead a long time._

_I think not. It was always thee. And he witnessed Manwë pronounce thy doom. How could he have risked damning another? But we truly go mad if we think of those we have lost. And he knew thy fate. He had to build walls everywhere, Gil, and he built them too well._

Pain shivered through the hardness of Gil-galad's face.  
 _Damn Manwë for forcing that knowledge on him !_  
“Walls,” he murmured. “We had to live behind them in Lindon. All we knew were walls. Dost thou know...” He paused and closed his eyes. “In the Void, at the beginning – I think, for there was no way of knowing time – I prayed that the visions I were shown would cease...until I realized it was all I had of those I loved.”

Maglor touched his face tenderly, the gentleness at odd variance with the flash of fury in his eyes; hate against the Valar who had meted out such a cruel punishment.

“I do understand him,” Gil-galad continued. “But I want him so much that I ache, and I watch and wait for his pride to crack and for him to come to me and beg me to take him !”

“He will not,” said Tindómion's father. “And neither wouldst thou.”

~~~

Driftwood had been gathered, and the sparks from fires spat up into the night. Lanterns glowed on the ships, and music sounded from both vessel and beach. There was the scent of roasting meat and hot wine. Water barrels had been refilled and meat would be salted down in the galleys. Dried fruit they had from Mithlond, and a sufficiency of wine and cyser.

On board Rosriel's ship, Erestor, released from her presence for the night, went on deck and watched the fires on the beach. He knew no-one could have guessed his thoughts from his expression, even were there any to observe, but it was not any-one reading his face he was concerned about.  
He wanted to convince himself that there was nothing untoward about what he had heard three nights ago, but the doubt remained. The problem was, that if he was correct, reaching out to speak to Glorfindel would expose him. He was not afraid for his life, but if this matter were to be played out to it's end, he must not alert Rosriel. If she were not so absorbed in her plans and stewing in her hate, he believed she would know what was in his mind. He could not, either, leave the ship without Borniven shadowing him; Rosriel might be enwrapped in herself, but Erestor's erstwhile friend was still suspicious.

Words like a flood of metal, crystal shards clashing together, incomprehensible to his ears, and somehow unpleasing, as if they were suited to mouths which shaped language differently. It was not Black Speech, that much Erestor knew from his studies. He was very much afraid he knew what it was. And what it might mean.

~~~

 _He plays thee,_ Vórimóro commented.

 _I play him, also, my friend._ Gil-galad looked over to where Tindómion was talking to Fëanor. The fire burned out the copper in his loose hair and cloaked him in flame. _And he is not altogether playing. Be careful._

_I do not understand him. If I cannot resist thee, how can he? His love for thee was like a thorn in the pad of a wolf well-nigh all his life._

_Love and pride and long separation lie between us._ Gil-galad rose. Tindómion turned his head and Fëanor smiled, the light catching in his eyes.

“Walk with me,” Gil-galad said.

Tindómion inclined his head to his grandfather, and paced with Gil-galad from the fires, to where the ocean lipped at the sand, murmuring in it's sleep. Behind them, the sound of Maglor's harp sounded, as soft and as liquid, like an echo.

 _There is a thrill in the blood when dancing with the flame,_  
What had provoked that passionate kiss, powerful as a blow? It had, Gil-galad thought, been _meant_ as a blow. _Maglor is right. My proud beauty does know._

“Perhaps I will need thousands of years to get to know thee again, Istelion,” he said aloud.

“I am as thou hast always known me.” Tindómion looked at him, stern-faced.

“In many ways, yes,” Gil-galad conceded, slipping his fingers into the loosened hair. “But this is the end of the Third Age. It still seems impossible to me I have been dead so long.” There was wonder in his voice, but no self-pity. “I see that Age in thee.”

“I was not in the Void, Gil !” The words came like blood from a wound. “I cannot imagine it. My hate for those who pronounced that doom will never die. And now thou art here and – !”

Gil-galad gazed into the burnished eyes. “And as I said to thee in Mithlond, if thou art in my company enough perhaps thou wilt believe at last, that I am real.” He smiled and murmured, lovingly, “Proud fool.”

“I know it.” A shamefaced smile dawned.

“Ay, and I know it too, but I was thinking of myself, also.” Gil-galad stepped up to him, fingers drawing through the wind-teased mane of hair to cup the hard buttocks.  
 _To lie with a friend for bodily ease is satisfying, and I do not regret it, but compared to him it is as a pale candle to a forge-fire._

He remembered that day with such clarity that it struck a quiver through him, and his hardness thrust itself against his breeches and Tindómion's own arousal.  
 _Only once, truly, were we ever together. I let him take me. I wanted it, but this time..._ The knowledge that he still affected the Fëanorion so was a delight and triumph.

“ _Nárya,_ ” he whispered through the smile as their lips touched. “Am I not here? Am I not real? Feel me...”

“I will need to feel thee forever...” Words fraying into huskiness.

What came first – the breaking notes of Maglor's tune, or the cry, they did not know.

“ **Finrod !** ”  
The shout from behind them was so unexpected, so laden with fury and pain that it jerked them apart, hands flashing to swords which were not there.

There was a commotion further up the beach; figures silhouetted by the fires. They saw the glint of Glorfindel's golden mane and a great wash of cream-colored hair as some-one began to run east along the beach as if to dive into the sea. He was caught, arms about him, by Glorfindel and another: Fëanor.

“ _No !_ Hells, Glorfindel...!” Gil-galad recognized Celegorm's urbane voice scoured raw by fear and rage. “Help him !”

Glorfindel said, stern as winter: “I know. _Wait !_ ”

“ _What are they doing to him?_ ” Celegorm cried.

“They seek to break him,” said Finrod's brother. “And they want us to see it, thou and I.”

  
Borniven raced on deck and grabbed Erestor's shoulder.

“The Lady...”

Erestor turned unwillingly from the fires and shouts onshore and, resisting the temptation to retort, _“What lady?”_ raised his brows enquiringly.  
“What? Something is happening on the beach.”

“Never mind that !” Borniven pushed at him. “The Lady...”

Erestor followed him down and into Rosriel's cabin. She did not turn to look at them. She was facing west, staring at the paneled wall of the cabin, eyes glassy and blank. Words were spilling from her lips, jagged, rustling, like the hiss of metal on metal.

~~~

 _Glorfindel !_ Vanimórë's mind-voice came into his mind like a whip-crack.

 _I know. They are trying to break him with a Song of Power, as Sauron did._ The reply was terse. Then: _But I believe he can best them._

~~~

Finrod remembered Sauron's song, mocking his own, opening the cracks in it, laying bare the resentment and loss of faith.

_Never build upon rotten foundations..._

This Song hit him like a downpour of icicles. It melted as it struck his mind, flowed into it as a miasma. Manwë and Námo sung in counterpoint to one another. Finrod did not _hear_ the words; he felt them.

It was like a ditch filled with the stagnant water of Ages, water that never moved, was never freshened, and at the bottom lay rank detritus, pressing into his throat, filling his ears and nostrils so that he was smothered. Deadness seeped into the soul, stagnation, without hope of release or change.

 _This is their minds._ The thought bubbled up as through heavy mud. Sauron's mind had been all sharp metallic scorn, stripping aside his defenses one layer at a time razor-like, until his innermost doubts were exposed. But Manwë and Námo sought to diminish him. Their Song was woven out of curdled hate, with one monotonous note sounding through it; a dreary bray like a continuous blast upon a cracked horn.  
Finrod saw the Noldor return with measured steps to Valinor, and watched them live – save that it was not life. They crafted for the glory of the Valar and when at rest they were as wooden dolls made for children, expressionless, voiceless, dressed in silks and adorned with gems. Mindless, beautiful ornaments.  
Those who had sinned and been banished to darkness, were not punished on their return but became absorbed into the amorphous mass of Elves in Tirion, Tol Eressëa, Valmar, even Ilmarin, where they sat before the Valar, or waited upon them in adoration.

The dirge showed him the fate of the Elves. They would return and take their rightful place as the Valars' willing slaves.

He saw, balanced on one sourly triumphant bray, Fëanor, kneeling before Manwë and Varda, hands open and lax, gazing humbly at their feet, not worthy of looking into their faces. He saw his family, his kin, and then Celegorm, a fatuous smile on his mouth.

_This is not true._

The Song wove the Elves into itself, molding them into replicas of one another. Faces began to blur, losing their individuality, their brightness extinguished in a flood of brackish ooze.

_This is not..._

_How it is._

The song congealed about him like drying mud, holding him fast. There was nothing to hope for, nothing to aspire to, no ambition, no untrammeled thought, no passion. And then came the Ending of All Things, when their very souls flickered out to sink into Night...The Song told him that the Elves were born to serve the Valar and after, non-existence awaited them. Even their spirits would be gone.

_This is not what we were born to be. This is not what we are. This is what **they** want us to be._

Faces surrounded him, painted with bland smiles, all alike, moving through the days and nights in a repetition of actions that was somehow as horrible as the spasmodic jerking of a dying body.

He sought to bring a memory to bear, to distinguish one face from the mass. It was so hard, the glaze that rendered all features the same refused to crack.

_No. I **will** remember._

His muscles locked, perspiration pushed through his skin. He could see only greyness peopled by a a blur of faces.

_There was...more_

_There was..._

He groaned with the effort.

Something sparkled far away, tiny and brilliant in the gloom.

Finrod fell to his knees, striving.

_There was... **more !**_

A glint. A hand, with long, tapering fingers, adorned with fire opal and pearl.  
Finrod's mind siezed upon it.

A laugh rang down the stagnant Ages, rich and mocking. There was a room, somewhere, silvery light falling onto a figure who gleamed with jewels...

_Tyelkormo...!_

_“Dear cousin, please accept my gift on this day.”_

_My begetting day..._

It had been a day of celebration and gift-giving in Tirion, there had been feasting and sports, and later, as the light of the Trees was silvery-dim, and Findaráto went to rest, Tyelkormo had been waiting in his chambers.  
Maitimo and Macalaurë had been at the feast, and Findaráto had been congratulated by an aloof, magnificent Fëanaro, which had surprised him. The day had passed in a whirl of music, and competitions, sparkling wine (and he had tasted his first sip of the white mead of the Valar, which caused his head to swim, not unpleasantly) but Tyelkormo had not been there, and Findaráto was conscious of both relief and disappointment. There was no reason why he should have attended. Findaráto did not even know him well. He had spoken to him shyly, only once, when he was much younger, but he had seen him at times, and had heard people say that he and his cousin looked very much alike. Now, when he should have felt adult and grown, Tyelkormo's elegant beauty, old-gold velvet and gemmed hair, reduced him to incoherent childhood again.

“I thank thee, cousin.” He knew he was blushing and attempted to hide behind courtesy. “I did not expect thee to come.”

“Ah, there was such a crowd, and what I have to give to thee requires privacy.” Tyelkormo moved forward, smiling his urbane smile and cupped Findaráto's chin in one hand, lifting it up. “Thou art so fair,” he murmured and kissed him on the mouth.  
It might have passed as a chaste, cousinly kiss, but there was nothing either chaste or cousinly about Tyelkormo. His lips were surprisingly soft and warm, and the touch lingered a moment, settled light as a moth on Findaráto's mouth.  
It wrung a shudder through him that sent ripples to the furthest edges of his world, and then broke through his carefully constructed beliefs that formed that world.  
He made a sound through the tremors, heard the din of his heart in his ears. His eyes had closed. He opened them, looked into his cousin's face, at that sinful mouth. An oddly sweet smile curved it. Findaráto knew nothing at that moment but that he wanted to feel it upon his again. 

“What brings thee here, nephew?” The cold question came from behind them, from the doorway where Arafinwë stood.

“I am simply wishing my fair cousin a blessed begetting day, uncle.” Tyelkormo sounded not a whit discomposed. The smile remained on his lips, but it had hardened, white and glittering with challenge.

“Then thou art laggardly. The day has turned. And it was a long one for thee Findaráto. Thou must rest.”

“Sending him to bed, uncle? An excellent notion. Perhaps I might sit and sing to him until he sleeps?” And now the mockery was clear. Findaráto's cheeks burned at the thought of lying naked in bed with his cousin close by.

“Tyelkormo, leave. Now.” Arafinwë abandoned politeness, and still Findaráto, looking from one to the other, could not understand either of them, or his own bewildered turmoil. His father had raised him within an immaculate household.

“Of course, uncle. I shall leave the way I came. Please, do not put thyself to the trouble of escorting me. Farewell for now, fair cousin.” His fingers drifted across Findaráto's throat, combed through his hair leaving a trail like flickering fire. Then with a last look over his shoulder, Tyelkormo strolled to the balcony and negligently vaulted over the marble baluster to the ground below.

“What did he want?” Arafinwë asked coldly.

With hot cheeks and an extraordinarily disturbing ache in his loins, Findaráto replied: “It is as he said, _atar._ ”

“Heed me and keep away from that family,” his father ordered. “Now go to bed.”

~~~

_Finrod !_

The scream pierced his mind like a fire arrow, flashed to his nerve-endings. He pushed himself through the grey drone of the Song, and to his feet. His eyes burned, light struck through him so that he shone like a living sword as he faced the intoning Valar. He flung back his head and cried out so that the marble walls of the chamber rang:  
“ _Celegorm !_ ”

And then he began to sing. ~

 

~~~


	33. ~ The Love of a Kinslayer ~

_They are approaching this in entirely the wrong way._ Vanimórë's smile flashed into Glorfindel's mind, loaded with irony, spiced with disbelief. _How can they be so damned clumsy?_ He put an arm about Elgalad and laughed outright.  
  
 _It is what they believe._ Glorfindel was not smiling as he watched what unfolded in Valinor. He was ready to burn into power and go to his brother's aid if necessary, but he did not think it would be.  
 _Just as the greater part of the Eldar came to believe in the Laws, so did the Valar come to believe we were given to them. This is how they want us to live._  
  
 _Not all of the Valar believe that,_ Vanimórë returned.  
  
 _No, not all._  
  
They watched in the ways of the Ainur, as if what took place in Tirion was before them. All the Valar of Aman watched, and Celegorm, for Manwë had desired him to witness the second failing of Finrod in a duel of songs, and thereby to increase Finrod's shame.  
  
Glorfindel reached into his powers, felt the great storm of individual minds that were the Noldor of this new self-imposed Exile, the Elves of Middle-earth and Eldar of Aman, and through him, their consciousness opened and they too could see.  
  
  
  
Celegorm's voice still resounded through his mind. The images of his cousin were in such brilliant contrast to the drone of suffocation that Finrod felt his soul explode with wild delight. The vision of mindless obedience disgorged upon him was a _lie._ As much as the Powers might wish it were so, and despite all their efforts, it had never been the fate of the Firstborn to be slaves of the Valar. Finrod did not believe it was the will of Eru either, and he drew upon the gifts the One had given them to break this assault upon him. There was fire in their hearts and passion in their souls.  
  
 _We are the Eruhíni !_  
  
His mind unfurled all his memories, and he hurled them forth in song like a war-banner. It was patched with with blood and tears, but the love and glory were almost shockingly vivid, and no grey dirge could mute them.  
  
The Valar countered with a hate-filled shout that had echoed through his mind every step of his journey with Beren, and in the deep pit where his life ended. He saw again Celegorm backing from him in Nargothrond, crying: _“Rot in the Hells !”_  
  
But they erred. They could not show him this one image without his mind supplying all that went before it; they could not snip one piece out of the tapestry of his life and present it as the whole truth. Finrod's memories were all he had in Valinor, where day and night misted one into another, where there was no great heat, no great cold, where all was temperate. Sometimes he wondered if this was another manifestation of the Timeless Halls, that he had never been re-born. The past was splashed with scarlet and black and blue and gold, and was more real than the calm, white days and he held on to it with all his strength.  
  
Finrod, once called Felagund, once a king, lived in a Tirion as mild as milk, and he looked each day for something that was no longer there. He sought to reach to Middle-earth, but his mind was foiled and turned aside. Yet sometimes in dream he thought he heard the voices of those across the sea, and saw their faces.  
  
There had been gentle love and gentle pleasures, for after the Oath of Fëanor and the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, extremes of emotion were discouraged. This was not, he had been given to understand by his father, Middle-earth. There was no need of swords or war, there would be no feuds nor hatred, no questioning of the wisdom and laws of the Valar, for such things had lead only to tragedy.  
  
But he remembered passion, although he had only touched the leading storm-edge of that love condemned by the Valar. He had chosen to deny himself out of a sense of loyalty, and he had remained true to his private vows. He had been tempted, and turned away, and perhaps no-one but he knew what that had cost him. Then there was the oath sworn to Barahir, which had come into direct collision with that first, oldest, most secret love. Thus he had died, to be reborn, to live as the Valar would have him live, a life not so different to the one their song showed him.  
  
His forged their attack into his counter-stroke. His song was steel and it was drawn from a sheath of pain and beauty and love.  
  
 _Nargothrond built itself around him..._  
  
It was almost ten years since the Dagor Bragollach, and the victories of Morgoth had been comprehensive. Three years before, he had flung his forces against Hithlum, and had only been repulsed with aid from Círdan and the Elves of the Falas.  
This was the time of the incoming into Beleriand of the so-called Swarthy Men from the East, and some took service with Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir. Messages came to Nargothrond by the hawks beloved of Celegorm, and they carried the news that the Enemy was beginning to withdraw the greater part of his host to Angband, although he still held ruined Dorthonion and the Pass of Sirion.  
  
It had been a long rich summer; a golden benison. It seemed, Finrod thought after, as if he had been given a last lovely season before death. Celegorm had been much out on Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain and one still, bright day, the air rich with autumn, Finrod left Nargothrond to go amongst the patrols.  
  
It seemed a place of peace, if one did not know the hidden watchtowers, and that each copse and dell held archers. The grasses were long, the late flowers blooming, apples were ripe and the thickets of blackberries were rich with fruit.  
At the last, he came to a mound crowned with tall trees, and within it was a tower all grown with ivy so that it blended into a weave of shadow. It was garrisoned by Celegorm's people, and their lord was waiting for him.  
They returned to Nargothrond together.  
  
That night in the high gallery they closed the door upon the world for a while.  
Finrod wondered if a finger of presentiment had touched him, as it had long before when, his sister asking why he was unwed, he had responded: _“An oath too, I shall swear and must be free to fulfil it and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit.”*_  
He had not told Celegorm of the visions that crowded his mind in the space between the asking and answering of a question, of a dark place, where shapes that looked like wolves but were more dreadful paced, of a tall, pale-haired man with power in eyes and voice, of Nargothrond ruined and broken. It was to come, but it was not yet. (And even then, Beren was setting forth from Doriath on a quest that should have lead to his death.) This night, he knew suddenly, was for him.  
  
Although a king and accounted wise, Finrod could still feel as an uncertain youth in Celegorm's presence, but there was no tension at this moment. The gently fading sadness of the season seemed to sink into them, riding in on the breeze. As the land beyond Narog blurred into night, they returned to Finrod's chambers. One torchiére burned, casting light up onto the carven ceiling, running over patterns of river-pearl and agate so that they rippled like liquid. Wine and two cups had been left and the braziers freshly tended.  
  
Celegorm poured from the jug. The flame limned the beautiful line of temple and cheek. He looked up, as if about to speak, but as if he saw something in Finrod's expression, he stopped.  
Since their kiss in the gallery, Celegorm had maintained his siege upon Finrod's chastity, sometimes playful, sometimes intense, and when he became frustrated and angry he would leave Nargothrond. He was not the only one to feel frustration, although Finrod believed – hoped – that he concealed it better.  
  
“I do not think it is wrong,” he said, feeling his mouth dry.  
  
Celegorm raised his brows in inquiry. “Do not think what is wrong?”  
  
“For a man to love another man.”  
  
Celegorm set down his wine-cup with a snap and stepped forward. Finrod put up his hands and his cousin came up against them, his heart was thundering through the velvet of the tunic, swift, heavy strokes.  
  
“Then...”  
  
“Listen to me. By the time my father came upon us in my chambers, on my begetting day, it was already too late to warn me of thee.”  
Ah, there was such relief in admitting it !  
  
Celegorm's eyes were shining, brilliant as the polished black pearls he loved to wear. He pressed harder into the hands which both held him back and caressed him, and his own settled on Finrod's waist. Who said, on a groan: “I always wanted thee! – _Hells !_ ”  
He locked his arms about Celegorm and kissed him, an outpouring of need that sparked an instant response. It was a kiss which gave no quarter and asked for none, hard, and hungry and brutal with love.  
  
“But we cannot be lovers.” It took a great deal of both mental and physical strength to wrench his head away.  
  
“What art thou saying?” The question came on a gasp.  
  
“I swore that I would not bring further pain upon my father, after Glorfindel chose his path – and there is Amarië.” Finrod would not look away, would not close his eyes as he saw the radiance melt from Celegorm's face, the astonished rage that replaced it.  
  
“To the Void with Finarfin. What has he to do with those of us in Middle-earth? He turned back! Cause _him_ pain? Thou knowest well my own father would never have turned from any of his sons. He knew Maedhros and Fingon loved, and supported them! I know thou hast never swerved in thy love for Glorfindel. Do not use him as an excuse.” The slender hands were in Finrod's hair, on his back, cupping his buttocks. It was becoming too hard to think, to resist... “And I know how Amarië was thrown at thee. The same thing happened to Fingolfin. Didst thou not know that? My father told me. Yes, our uncle, who wounded Morgoth and was slain, a hero among all the Elves of Middle-earth – he desired men!” Celegorm's mouth sought his again, and their argument became heated whispered breaking around hotter kisses.  
  
“I cannot debate with thee. And I love Glorfindel, he is still my brother, and he could never shame me. But I made a promise to myself long ago. I am the eldest son of Finarfin...”  
  
“Thy father is not here. Amarië is not here. And even were she, thou dost not love her.”  
  
“I love _thee !_ ” Finrod cast himself into the all-consuming hunger, drinking all that he could, not knowing what he gave. It could not satisfy him, and he ground himself against his cousin's arousal, heard a groan break from Celegorm's lips.  
  
It was too much. It was maddening. His loins ached, his skin was afire, the need was a torrent in him, the winter thunder of Narog heated to scalding. He tasted the sweet salt-and-perfume of the flesh under his mouth. Celegorm tipped his head back at the touch, his fingers at Finrod's belt.  
  
He pulled himself away, half-blind with need, never having known how _much_ he needed.  
“There was never any-one but thee, but I will not break my oath.”  
  
There was no sound in the room for a moment. Celegorm looked dazed and wild. He shook the tousled mane of creamy hair as if to order his thoughts.  
  
“Finrod.” he took a deep breath and began again. “ _Finrod...!”_  
  
“I am sorry, my love. Not in this world.”  
  
He could almost see the spike of fury drive upward through the Fëanorion. It was a living thing in him; he became the flame, the rage, as his hands reached out in a strange gesture of helplessness and oath-taking together  
  
“Thou _shalt_ break thine oath,” Celegorm flashed at him as he turned away. “I vow it. And thou shalt beg for me. I will bring thee to thy knees.”  
  
Finrod lifted his chin. There was steel in his response, and soul-shattering sadness.  
  
“Not in this world,” he repeated.  
  
  
And then, but days after, warriors had brought Beren to him. Finrod received him in private, and listened to his tale. The light flashed from the ring the Man bore, two serpents, one upholding, one devouring a crown of flowers. Their emerald eyes winked coldly, as if at a sour jest.  
  
He had pledged himself to aid the line of the dead Barahir, and with a weight upon him like the rock of Nargothrond, he lead Beren into the great hall.  
  
Celegorm could not believe he would set this Man above love. His eyes, as he realized that Finrod held to his oath had been, for a moment, like a child slapped without cause. And being hurt Celegorm struck back, swift and deadly. All but ten of Finrod's lords deserted him, such was the power in the two sons of Fëanor when they spoke; Celegorm like fire, Curufin soft and subtle. They set a fear within the hearts of the people like a shadow of death, and they turned their faces from their king. And he, in bitterness, threw down his silver crown and walked from the hall.  
  
In that last night in his mighty fortress, Finrod sat and considered his life.  
  
 _The Oath of Fëanor slept..._  
  
No longer.  
  
Such a potent power was wound in the Silmarils that it touched even those whom had never seen them. The Oath brought madness and death as its attendants, and it had enmeshed him as surely as it had Celegorm.  
  
He walked onto the gallery, feeling the gulf beyond it as the place where his life would end. There would be pain, and death...  
  
 _...go into darkness..._  
  
He locked the door behind him, and leaned back against it.  
  
 _I lived a lie all my life._  
  
Celegorm thrust open the door from the ante-chamber and stared at him.  
There was devastation in his eyes, hatred and madness. But there was something else reaching through all of those: a terrible, baffled love.  
  
He whispered, as if his throat were raw, “What hast thou done to me – to _us?_ ”  
  
“This is another vow, cousin, that I will not break.” Finrod covered the space between them, and never had it seemed so far. “As thou canst not break thine own. _I saw the Oath wake in thee !_ ”  
  
“Thou wouldst put a Man above me? Above kith and kin and _love?_ ” Celegorm's voice broke free. “After professing to love me...?” He groped for air. “The only reason I did not slay him in thy hall is because I know he will die, and rightly, for he aspires to things beyond his reach ! _But thou wilt die also !_ ”  
  
“Yes,” Finrod said calmly. “I have long known it. Only Eru knows what thy father created in the Silmarilli, but they and the Oath of Fëanor are like to break the world.”  
  
“ _What else can we do?_ ”  
  
“Nothing else. We are both forsworn.”  
  
Fresh rage broke like lightning over Celegorm's face. “Is this what thou wouldst call love, cousin?” He said wildly and laughed, a shattering sound. “There is no hope ! Thou wilt never recover a Silmaril ! But if there were hope, thou wouldst see me doomed to the Everlasting Dark by my failure to effect my Oath !”  
  
“ _No! Never !_ ” Finrod felt the words wrung from him. “I would give my own life to see thee free of that bloody oath, were I free. But I am not free ! And thou canst not unsay what thou hast said, and undo what thou hast done !” He opened one hand. “There is no way back from the brink of the abyss.”  
  
So much pain in that chamber, so much anger.  
  
Celegorm's eyes snapped into black ice. “ _How else does one deal with a traitor?_ ”  
Finrod caught his arm before the blow fell, and their mouths met, then Celegorm jerked away and tears melted through the ice.  
  
“No,” he whispered, backing away. “ _Rot in the Hells !_ ”  
  


~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From the Silmarillion: Chapter 15. Of the Noldor in Beleriand.


	34. ~ A Song of Love and Steel ~

  
“There was hate indeed.” Finrod set fire to his sword-song with the anguish of memory. “But there was love also. The Oath lay between us, but Sauron bested me because I had denied the _truth_ to myself, because I withheld love, because Glorfindel was forced to walk away from his family – and had the courage to do so! I upheld a lie and Sauron saw through it like glass and smashed it! But in all this was life, and though we fell, we _lived,_ and laughed and wept, and were our own masters, as Ilúvatar intended! He set us on Arda to be _free!_ We are not pets or servants or toys of the Valar! Thy Laws were not made for _us_ but for creatures without a will, because thou wert jealous of our freedom and wanted only more servants, more children born to turn Valinor into a jewel-box where thou might sit for Age upon Age and pretend the world without – the world thou didst _desert!_ did not exist!”

They could not halt him now, though they tried, flinging his death in Tol-in-Gaurhoth into his face, so he felt the werewolf's claws rending him as he grappled with it, tearing open his belly, his groin. His heart, laboring as he crushed the thing's throat, had pumped out his life-blood like a fountain. There had, he knew, been no glory to that agonizing death, in that lost, dark place. Now he saw it, a thing that had once been an Elf, a man, and he could not recognize the wreckage as himself.  
But he had fulfilled his oath.

“I betrayed his love, and he ruined me. And I did indeed betray him, for although I loved the Men of the House of Bëor, Beren was simply my oath to his father made manifest in flesh. And what brought him to me, hopeless and determined? Love ! But I tell thee this: his love for Lúthien was no greater than mine for Celegorm!”  
He was the song now, the sword. He shone in the chamber like a dropped star.  
“And my death was not enough, was it?”

~~~

He had felt them die, the forbidden love, and the adored brother. Celegorm was the first, in brief, savage images of rage and madness and pain. He knew what this meant, and he had gone to Ilmarin, to the white halls where Ingwë his kinsman sat playing a lyre before the throne of Manwë and Varda. The Lady was silent, looking through him and beyond him with eyes where stars were birthed and died, but Manwë said: “They are gone.”  
And he named them, Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin, and told of their deaths in the attack upon Doriath.

 _Doriath...Thingol was enwrapped in the Doom and the Oath when he demanded a Silmaril as bride-price for his daughter._  
Finrod closed his eyes for a moment, mourning too many deaths, the fall of so much that was glorious.  
“I ask for mercy, lord.”

Manwë raised his brows. Ingwë lifted his frost-coloured head and watched Finrod from calm, cobalt eyes.

“They consigned their souls to the Void an they failed their bloody Oath. They have followed their fell sire into Night. They slew, they murdered, both women and children.”

“I do not seek to excuse them, but they were trapped within their Oath – as I was!”

“Know thou that thy dear Tyelkormo turned to Lúthien after thy death?” Varda's voice came cold as falling starlight, hard as dropped cobble-stones. “That he did kidnap her and imprison her in thy Nargothrond? He never touched her, she was too fine for his hands to sully.”

_Lúthien?_

“She loved Beren,” Finrod said with hard control. “And Celegorm would never have forced her. He had too much pride.”

“Indeed he did not touch her ! Beren saw the beauty and glory of the Ainur in her and loved her, and the line that springs from them shall never die. The best of Elves and Men shall be saved. The House of Fëanáro shall perish, as will the House of Nolofinwë !” Varda rose like a snow-cloud and swept away.

“Hadst thou succumbed to thy cousin, so much might have been different,” Manwë mused, as if considering something unimportant. “But thou canst not change their fate. They are damned.”

“I cannot believe this is Eru's will !” Finrod met the Vala's eyes. He saw storms in them.

“The One speaks through us! _Get thee hence!”_  
Winds hurled themselves into his face, forced him from the Halls and chased him, nipping like hunting dogs, down to Tirion.

 _Is it not justice?_ he asked himself. _He has slain his own kin, and unarmed innocents. They all have. He betrayed me._

And still his heart was broken.

And he felt Glorfindel die. The grief that exploded into his mind had felled him to his knees, and he had cried out his brother's name. The palace had been quiet as he ran to his father's chambers and said, his voice choking in his throat, “He is dead ! Laurëfindë is dead !”

“I know,” Arafinwë replied, and added with a hint of cool reproof, “Those who chose to depart Aman knew the Doom that lay upon them. Art thou so surprised that they are being destroyed? It is so fated. And Laurëfindë made his choice long ago. He is not my son. Now he goes to his judgment.”

“In Eru's name...! _He is still thy son!_ ”

“He is my shame,” his father corrected implacably.

Finrod had been bereft of speech. He turned and went from the palace, along the streets to the great north gate of the city. It seemed impossible that all should feel so unchanged when his very soul was an open wound. But then, the Noldor who had remained never spoke of the Exiles – they had indeed become something shameful. Arafinwë did not even speak of his blood-brother, whose death had been valiant beyond measure.

Outside the gate, Finrod looked up at Taniquetil, mountain-throne of the Powers. It looked as remote as the pity in this land.

The sound of hooves brought his head back down to the causeway.  
The stallion was silver-pale as a crescent moon, and it's rider's hair swirled like a nest of snakes as he came to a halt, for it was bound in scores of slender braids set with falcon feathers and ropes of amber. His eyes were not remote, they were brilliant and wild as a hawk's – and they held understanding.

“Lord?” Finrod's voice came cold and accusing. At this moment, he loathed all the Valar.

“Art thou willing to plead for thy brother's soul, Findaráto?” Oromë asked, not ungently.

“By Eru's holy name, I am!” Finrod bit. “Though my pleas for others were dismissed!” Oromë reminded him too much of Celegorm, for the two had been close, in another time.  
As if he heard that thought, the Huntsman said with sorrow: “Do not think thou wert the only one to plead for Tyelkormo Fëanárion – or for his sire.”

“I will not – cannot – allow myself to believe they are lost forever! There is no mercy in it!” Finrod sliced a hand through the air. “Does Eru not pity his children?”

“Then lift thy voice to the One, Findaráto.”

“Hast thou?”

“I have. I do. But He granted us authority in Arda – and trusted us.” Oromë too looked up at Taniquetil. “No-one, not even the Ainur, can measure or understand the One. Although there are some whom believe they do, and think they are his voice on Arda. Come.” He held out his hand.  
“I could wish,” he murmured after Finrod had swung himself up on Nahar, “That I had never come upon the Firstborn. But thou wert so new and wondrous, living and learning in a world that even then was darkened and dangerous, so free, so beautiful! and the Great Music was for _thee._ The world we saw in vision, and each sang of, and labored against Melkor to build, was for _thee_ and the Aftercomers, thy brothers. Think on that, for thou art wise.”

And so Finrod had gone to Mahanaxar and knelt before Manwë and Námo. They told him what doom Glorfindel had earned, and then, that there were those Elves in Middle-earth who were faithful to the laws and that they deserved aid from a warrior whom would not falter under the darkness. For darkness would never be banished, and for a while the Elves would stand against it before the call of bright Valinor drew them to their home.

“Or so our brother believes.” Manwë had cast a look at Oromë, who looked as incongruous as a Moriquendi battle-captain among a gathering of Vanyar. The mottled snakeskin he wore traced his magnificent body like paint. He folded his arms and met Manwë's eyes.  
“It is not just I who believe it. Our father speaks and thou wouldst close thy mind?” The words were level and Manwë looked away and continued:  
“By our Laws, thy brother's punishment for his unclean acts is banishment to the Void.”

Finrod had feared it, but he did not _know_. The Oath of Fëanor had called the Everlasting Dark upon those who swore it and failed to fulfill it. He remembered crying into Celegorm's mind, _I will not lose thee!_ But Glorfindel had never sworn the Oath.  
 _They are punished for loving other men? Banished to the Everlasting Night?_

“No.”

“Thou knowest our Laws,” Námo snarled.

“Does Eru permit this?” Finrod demanded, even as Glorfindel would.

Manwë went on, as if he had not heard, “Thou art perhaps owed something for thy lifelong resistance to such sin. Thy death was honorable, and now a Silmaril is out of the hands of the mad sons of Fëanáro – let us hope, forever. Thy sacrifice for the Man, Beren, and Lúthien the Beloved entitles thee to some grace. So, son of wise Arafinwë...”

Námo thrust his shoulders forward like a gor crow over a carcass. “Beg.”

Oromë made a movement like a restless horse, then quietened.

And Finrod went down on both knees and begged for Glorfindel's rebirth. He did not notice the other Valar who gathered, as he pleaded, but it was not he who was diminished when Manwë put up a hand as if bored.

“The Valar favor thy father – and despite thine own temptations, thou hast overcome, though thou didst fail when truly tested.” He paused to let that vicious barb sink in. “But thy death has set events in motion which please us. Also, thy brother's death allowed one to live whom we have long looked for. This then is our doom: Laurëfindë Los'lóriol shall be given a choice. To return to Middle-earth, or to go into the Dark.”

And then Finrod was shown Glorfindel's death.

~~~

“Petty tyrants !” Finrod declaimed. “ _Get hence!”_

There was movement in the doorway, the glitter of swords, armor, the sway of plumes. Finrod had no weapon of steel here, and his song seemed to have no effect upon these newcomers. Manwë must have called his warriors from Valmar.  
He stood his ground.  
In the moment that his attention was withdrawn, Námo reached into his robe and drew forth a blade.  
Finrod's hand blurred as he grasped the other's wrist.  
And then, silver swords were at the throats of the two Valar. Striding into the chamber Oromë said, iron-voiced: “We die not, but I promise thee that wounds can still hurt – or hast thou forgotten our ancient battles, _brothers?_ ” He dropped the last word at their feet like worthless coin. “It is enough. Thou art bested.”

There were others there, Ulmo, Aule, Estë, Nienna. The room swayed and darkened before Finrod and he felt some-one seize him. The breath labored in his lungs and explosions of light danced in his vision. With an effort, he remained on his feet, and the floor became solid once again. The one who had steadied him drew off his helm with a swirl of hair the color of frost. Cobalt eyes flamed into his.

“Too long have we slept, kinsman,” said Ingwë, High King of all the Elves. One gauntleted hand still held a sword, the other slipped to cradle Finrod's neck and draw him forward. His kiss was warm and there was a smile in it, the smile of a prisoner released. “Lord Glorfindel showed us what passed here.”

_Showed...?_

“How long...?”

“It was a long battle.” Ingwë threw a look that would have cut ice at Manwë. “Where wouldst thou go? I am at thy service.” His smile blazed out. “From all I saw, I think not that Tyelkormo Fëanárion deserves thee, but if thou wouldst sail, I shall escort thee to the Swanhaven. Thou shalt find friends there also.”  
He snapped his fingers and one of his warriors brought wine. Finrod drained it at one gulp.  
“I do not know.” He felt light and hollow, drained to the marrow of his bones. “I think I still wish to kill him.”

Very far away, the Noldor on the beach and the ships had lifted up their voices in exultation, but Celegorm's head was bowed into his hands and his fingers were white as they clasped his skull. Glorfindel said, softly, knowing his brother could hear him: “Well done, beloved. Very well done.”

Further away yet, Vanimórë threw back his head and laughed. ~

~~~


	35. ~ To The Sea of Blue Shadow ~

~ “Thou wert born there: T-Tol-in-Gaurhoth.” Elgalad's voice was quiet. He had been silent a long time after witnessing Finrod's confrontation with Manwë and Námo, and the added memories thrown into the duel by the combatants. There was white anger in his face, and Vanimórë traced it to its roots, found a tangle of rage at the Valar, honor for Finrod, even sympathy for Celegorm – and a question, which Elgalad would not ask.

“I was not there, not then,” he said. “Sauron had taken us north to Angband on Morgoth's orders, the summer before.”

 _If thou hadst been there..._ came the thought. _Lúthien's power bested Sauron..._

“I know. We might have been freed.”

Elgalad's arms came about him and held him. He raised his eyes and said, passionately, “I w-wish thou hadst b-been.”

Vanimórë did not say, _So do I._ To think on what might have been would have driven him mad.  
“Perhaps it was not fated, my dear. And through it all, I found thee.”

“I would rather thou h-hadst been saved.” And he meant it. What did one do with such love? How could it be answered or merited?

“Well, so would I _not._ ” He kissed the parted mouth hungrily and Elgalad slid one thigh up over his hip, pressing close, moaning through their kisses.

“ _We_ were fated,” Vanimórë murmured, battling the arousal which would not be defeated now or, he knew, ever. Elgalad was trembling, protested with a gasp as he was turned and drawn back. The shudders intensified as his belt was loosened, his breeches slipped down. Vanimórë slapped aside his own hungers, the mental images of what he _wanted_ to do, and dared not, and closed his fingers about Elgalad's hot, hard length. The protests broke into incoherent cries as Vanimórë worked him expertly, and brought him to release. He felt the thunder of Elgalad's heartbeat against his breast, in the throat which arched against his shoulder. He whispered against it: “I can wait, my dear. I need to learn more of these powers. And I love to feel thee, to know I can pleasure thee.”

“ _I_ want to pleasure _thee._ ”

“This _does_ please me. To have thee when I was permitted nothing...and one day...”  
 _The day will come when I can no longer control my desire for him..._  
And it was not desire alone; he needed to possess the loving innocence that gave him back something of what he had lost.

They sat under a fragrant pine as a storm blustered in the upper branches, and brought night in its wake. Elgalad, arms resting on his knees, murmured, “Dost thou think the Finrod w-will come to Middle-earth?”

“I would wager he will, sooner or later, though none are permitted to harm him in Valinor, and those who would are outmatched by those who wish him well. He could choose to stay, but he has unfinished business.” Vanimórë looked out at the blowing rain. His profile was pale against the oncoming night. Elgalad's eyes traced it lovingly, the elegant bones molded with arrogance and uncompromising defiance. Those eyes had color even in the gloom. They flicked to him, and warmed.

“So m-many broken threads...”

“So long as men and women exist, there will always be broken threads. Nothing is ever truly resolved. Perhaps not even after the Great Music is sung anew.” Vanimórë drew Elgalad's head down to rest on his lap. “Humankind were meant to _think_ and to _feel_ to make choices both good and bad, but most of all, to be _free to make them._ Some of the Valar considered that in itself enough to mar the music, for how can there be perfection with an awareness of evil and the freedom to follow it? Thus, one might say that the music was flawed when Elves and Men were sung into it, or _because_ they were. But it was Eru who wove that theme in. All the Ainur knew was perfection, and because they were also given the power over the souls of those Elves who followed the call to the Timeless Halls, they believed they could take away free will, through law, through control and through fear.”

Elgalad's watched, roused by the nearness, the scent of leather and spice, the deep lilt of the voice. Vanimórë looked down and smiled.

“I do n-not think I had any choice in loving thee.” He returned the smile.

“There is always a choice.”

“N-not in this,” Elgalad stated matter-of-factly. Then, “Is it n-not dangerous to have the Valar in Aman; c-could they not cause more trouble?”

“Their punishment is to slowly become memories, their powers greatly reduced.” This time the smile was cold. “Glorfindel and I have more power than they did even at the beginning. Besides, I damn well do not want Manwë and Námo and their followers on Middle-earth. I would be obliged to take measures.” He paused. “Which would be rather enjoyable, I admit.”

“And what of th-those such as Oromë and Irmo?”

“They are different, as thou hast seen, But Valinor is still their province. I believe it will become as it should have been, and Elves may still sail there.”

“And thou w-wouldst have had me go there.” Elgalad lifted his head.

“I thought Sauron would win the war,” Vanimórë said simply. “I knew what he would do to thee, to Mirkwood, to the rest of the Elven realms, the people of Middle-earth. I thought thou hadst done nothing that the Valar would not forgive, even Námo.” He leaned forward. His eyes were opaque now, glittering and secret as cut amethysts. Then he dropped a gentle kiss on Elgalad's brow. “But I do not believe thou wert fated to go to Valinor, dear heart. I needed to have the impetus to gain a Silmaril, to break into Aman.”

“But what if I h-had?” Elgalad slid his fingers over the hard shoulders, striped with ink-black lines, following the curves and sweeps down taut arms. “broken the L-laws?”

“I do not need to know that. All I can say is thank Eru thou didst not go there.” And Elgalad was kissed so thoroughly that his bones and blood dissolved into a molten river, all of it flowing into the one he loved.  
The air felt more chill when the warm mouth left his, but the arms that drew him close were all-encompassing.

“The rain is setting in for the night,” Vanimórë murmured. “Sleep, Meluion. Sleep.”

“I am n-no longer the child thou didst raise.” Elgalad smiled.

“I like to hold thee.” The reply was soft and something in it — a thread of need in one whom had taught himself not to need, wound itself around Elgalad's heart, and he settled against Vanimórë, his head against the crook of the strong neck, where he could feel the pulse, breathe in the exotic aroma that had slipped into his dreams over the long years of their separation. He felt the brush of lips on the crown of his head and believed, as he had since childhood, that he was both held by the world, and held it, and was complete.

~~~

No-one but Borniven and Erestor witnessed Rosriel's fury, or her collapse into exhausted sleep, but Erestor used that time to send a thought to Glorfindel.

 _The words are Valarin,_ Glorfindel responded after a moment, and then, _I have been avoiding thinking about her. Erestor, I am going to shield thy mind until this matter has been dealt with._

_Dost thou think the Valar...?_

_No Power can read the mind of another,_ Glorfindel told him. _Or all would have seen Melkor's hatred and desire for revenge when he was released from captivity in Aman. Though the Valar are reduced, they may still conceal their thoughts. I would not know how to read them without breaking them...I must think on this. Say nothing, do nothing. Fëanor wishes to deal with this when we reach our new home. And it is his right, as High King._

Celegorm had said nothing to Glorfindel; through the triumphant bay of jubilation, he had remained on his knees. People drew back from him save his father and brothers, but a head-shake and frown from Fëanor sent even them away. Glorfindel turned, engrossed as he was with Finrod, he had still to control the unfading rage that flamed in him. He could understand Celegorm's feelings of betrayal, but the arrogance that had considered a vow made by his cousin less weighty than his own oath was unforgivable.

Save by one.

_Finrod._

_Brother._

_I was always proud of thee. Never more so than at this moment._

He heard soft, weary laughter, threaded with an unmistakable gleam of satisfaction.  
 _I thank thee for allowing me to fight this battle alone._

 _I did not believe thou wouldst fail._ Yet it had been so hard to resist acting.

 _I never considered it._ Finrod stated. _I was simply enraged._

Glorfindel wrapped the arms of his soul about his brother and held him. It was never easy to confront the past; there was too much pain in it and it was always fresh, the wounds never skinned over. An Elf learned to live with them. It became the sorrow in their eyes.

 _And I am still angry._ Steel re-surfaced in Finrod's tone.

 _And who would blame thee? But no-one in Aman will dare touch thee now. Thou hast many who love thee – and among the Valar also._ Glorfindel sent an outpouring of gratitude to those whom had come with Oromë. Part of him understood their inaction over the years. Eru had set down the hierarchy of the Ainur upon Arda, and they were loath to upset that balance and war among one another. And perhaps, they did believe that the mightiest of them knew the will of Eru, although as Time unfolded, some became disenchanted and faltered and fell silent.  
The Valar had come from outside Time. They could not control it, and so had made a land where it could at least be slowed almost to nullity. In doing so, many of the Ainur had stagnated. This did not bode well for the future. Glorfindel had learned the prophecies of the End of All Things long ago. They all spoke of a time when the 'Gods' (for so the Valar named themselves.) would grow weary and Morgoth would return.

 _My dear,_ Vanimórë mocked gently from far off, _That is one of the reasons **thou** art a Power._

Glorfindel smiled. _And thou?_

 _I have not the remotest idea,_ came the light reply. _I have never never known what purpose I served. Ah, no – I mistake. It was **very** clear what purpose I served !_

 _Oh, Vanimórë._ He barred the impulse of pity. Sauron's son was metal, deflecting compassion as if it were a weapon used against him.  
 _I will be here for thee._

_I thank thee._

Legolas was looking at him in the firelight. He held out a wine goblet, and Glorfindel took it.

 _The Valar do not trouble me,_ Finrod said. He too was drinking – white mead, brought by Estë. _It is **he**. That matter is still unresolved._

_I know._

_He did not come to me, when he was released ! I could whip the skin from his back! And with great pleasure!_

_So could I!_  
Legolas' lifted aside his hair, began to knead the tense muscles of his shoulders.

_Is it not an irony that **he** should be the rock upon which I stood?_

Glorfindel released a long breath and drank the wine.  
 _Thou needst not come._

_I know it._

_Rest. Rest, now._

He felt Finrod's agreement.  
 _I will sleep,_ he said, _And then I must consider certain things._

 _I will watch over him, Laurëfindë,_ Oromë said.

 _And Estë and I will give him sleep without dreams,_ Irmo promised.

~~~

The vision shown to the Noldor had reawakened memories of the Oath of Fëanor. Under the fierce sense of freedom and the triumph of Finrod, it seethed. Many drew away from the the Fëanorions, and looked at Glorfindel wondering how he could ratify and support the rule of one who had caused such damage even after his death. But others could see the madness that the adherence to that Oath has caused in Celegorm and Curufin – indeed in all those who had sworn it – and they quietened, drinking wine in somber silence as the night drew on.

The moon had set. Fëanor watched the thick stars, part of his mind noting how the constellations changed as the voyage took them into the south. He felt a shudder go through Celegorm's shoulder and his head lifted, milk-pale. After a moment he rose and walked down to hiss and pull of the waves.

“He did betray me.” The words were almost inaudible.

“Thou wert each caught in a net,” Fëanor said. “I understand. Would I have reacted any differently? No. But I was the betrayer...” He turned Celegorm to face him. “He loved thee.”

“And he chose a Man over me, over my _fate!_ ” his son cried. “In the end...when Curufin and I came upon Beren and Lúthien, and Huan prevented me from slaying him, _him_ the cause of Finrod's death! I felt nothing. I could not touch any feeling.”

“I felt thus after my father died. Wanhope – birthed of terrible sorrow.”

“I did not desire Lúthien or love her as I did Finrod. But there was healing in her. And she had none to spare for me.”

“Perhaps Glorfindel is correct – perhaps the Valar would never have allowed me or any of my sons to reclaim the Silmarils,” Fëanor murmured. “Whom but one of the Valar would have had the power to allow Beren through the Girdle of Melian? And the recovery of a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown? A hopeless venture for any unless with aid, and that aid was Lúthien. And she could not have healed thee.”

Something shook through Celegorm's frozen face.  
“I know that now. It was too late for healing. Only he could have...And knowest thou,” he gave vent to a little incredulous laugh. “When we came upon them, Beren and Lúthien, they were walking arm in arm. I heard her laughter, like crystal bells, and his. Laughing – as if Finrod's death were nothing, just a small thing, as if he had not died in blood and agony to save the Man's life! I wished them both dead at that moment ! I thought of it when we attacked Doriath: What right did they have to joy and laughter when one so noble and fair – yes and grander than either of them! – was gone from my world?”

“Yes, that would have enraged me also,” his father said grimly. “But hark now, they are gone. Finrod has triumphed in his second testing. We all saw it.”

Celegorm's eyes caught the starsheen. “Yes.” There was unmistakable and malicious glee in the word

“And he still wants to kill thee.” Fëanor's teeth glinted white. “I grant that he may be exaggerating, but he is not going to come to thee and beg thee, as thou didst vow he would.”

“Is he not? He _admitted_ that he betrayed me !”

“He was in an untenable position. But now, _if_ he chooses to come to New Cuiviénen, then I want thine arguments private. I will not have another faction forming.”

Celegorm nodded, but his jaw hardened. “I understand.” And then: “Dost thou think he will come?”

“To flog thee senseless? Perhaps? And thou canst also,” Fëanor said, his tone dropping into sensual warmth, “do that in private.”

“Didst thou know?” The question was sudden.

“Thou art my sons, there is nothing thou couldst hide from me. But lovely, serene, Findaráto...he hid it well. What should I have done, pleaded thy case before him?” The fine black brows lifted. “Maedhros was well-nigh mad when I advised him that his desires for Fingon were stainless. I thought thou wert toying with thy cousin. I knew there was desire in thee, but thou didst also hide the love well.”

“I wonder,” Celegorm said suddenly. “Why I do not hate thee. The Oath...”

His father's smile held all of his complex love. “Because thou art like me.”

“Not enough. Not enough, or he would have held me above all others.”

“So very like me,” Fëanor swept a hand through the gold-white hair. “We neither of us will have anything less than all. And why, indeed, should we?”

~~~

As the sun rose in scarlet glory, the ships resumed their voyage. There was more tension now, concomitant with an increased desire to end this journey and put their hands and minds to new tasks. The conversations slipped between the past and future, between anger and sorrow. The majority of them had been deceived by the ruling Valar for so long that they were ashamed of their naivety, and enraged at what they now saw as enslavement.

In general they stayed out of sight of the coasts, but at times, when they stopped to take on water, they they saw stark beaches or river mouths flanked by lush trees that dripped moist-looking greenery. They put in at isles in the Straights of the World. The stars were unfamiliar, and Glorfindel guided them, for not even the Teleri had ventured so far south.  
The sea teemed with life both beautiful and perilous, dolphins which spoke in their laughing, clicking language, and huge sharks which shadowed the fleet. They saw pods of mighty whales and blankets of jellyfish which stretched for leagues as they drifted upon the currents.  
The Noldor learned to trust the mariners when squalls blew up, and when storms made the timbers groan and drove the ships like leaves.  
They were both fascinated by the sea and longed restlessly for land. The better part tried to knit their lives together, plan their future, their dwellings and trades. And many made love to the rock of the ship, either re-establishing old relationships or experiencing the freedom to enjoy one another without censure.

And some did not.

Tindómion rebuffed further overtures from Gil-galad out of a sense of guilt. Celegorm's long desire for Finrod mirrored his own for Gil-galad, but Finrod had been spared the Void because he had stood fast against temptation, and perhaps because Celegorm had not taken him to that point of no-return. If he himself had not made love to Gil-galad, if...Tindómion watched him in a rage of guilt. When Maglor said his anger should be directed at the Valar, his son, hissed: “Ah, it is ! But they were the Law and Manwë and Námo had the power to punish !”

When he heard this from Maglor, who felt some excuse was needed, Gil-galad blazed: “Does he blame himself or is this simply another excuse?” But because the ship and the wellbeing of all it's passengers were his responsibility, he did not press his lover (and he believed he had the right to call Tindómion his lover.) There would be time.

~~~

The inland sea was larger than the Sea of Rhun, and once had been part of the same mighty body of water – Helcar. The Valar had told the Elves that Helcar had been destroyed in the tumults of the War of Wrath, draining into the Eastern ocean, and that only Rhun and Nurnen remained of it. In fact they told the Eldar that there _'was no returning to Cuiviénen,'_ for they wished none to think of the days of their freedom. They had not entirely lied, for the Sea of Helcar had truly been destroyed, leaving three smaller remnants: this, Nurnen and Rhun.

The day they first saw it, it greeted them in flashing sapphire, stretching as limitless as the oceans they had sailed to the west and north, but dotted with islands. The quality of light on the waters, changing from dark blue to turquoise, inspired Fëanor to call it _Gaear Gwathluin,_ the Sea of Blue Shadow. It was more shallow than Helcar had been and much of its waters had indeed surged violently into the Sea of the East, but the constant influx of the streams and rivers falling from the Orocani fed it over the Ages. In the far distance, great mountains reared, white mantled and immense, dropping to tumbled foothills and deep valleys and the vast, ancient Wild Wood. Broad, fertile lands dotted with low hills and woodland spread about the shores. They did not yet know what lay beyond the sea, save by the maps Glorfindel had provided them with.  
It was a wide land, with room to move, to breath, the soil was rich, the climate temperate, and game was plentiful.

Thus began the new life of the Noldor in Arda. They set up great tents like a bloom of flowers. The material was oiled against the weather, and the interiors were strewn with rugs and warmed with braziers. They hunted, fished and gathered herbs, and on the third day they celebrated. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaear Gwathluin - the Sea of Blue Shadow.  
> Thank-you to Amaranth for working out the Sindarin name.


	36. ~ The Breaking of Cold Chains ~

  
~ Fëanor deliberately began the feast at noon, under a sun which blessed their skin with warmth. Wine-casks were opened and when the jugs had gone around, smoothing the spikes of animosity which had surfaced since Finrod's duel, Fëanor rose. Those most nearly involved with what he was about to say had seated themselves on the grass close to him. Their splendid garments belonged in marble halls and yet they had come to a place — once again — where initially, their style of living would be more rudimentary. There were mines to open, ore to dig, stone to quarry, sewage systems and foundations to lay before the buildings could rise. The thrill of challenge burned through Fëanor and he raised his head. He knew he was smiling.

“My people,” he said. “By the grace of Eru Ilúvatar, we have been reunited, and some have been released from the torments of the Everlasting Dark. The Valar no longer rule us, although our new made Power, Laurëfindë Los'lóriol is here on behalf of all the Quendi of Arda.” He flashed a smile at Glorfindel. “The next years will be ones of building, making, of learning, discovering our realm, but here and now I will state the Laws we will live under, and this shall be proclaimed to all. The children born here will never feel they are under a yoke.” He beckoned. “Step forth, Maedhros, and Fingon.”

He had not spoken of this even to Fingolfin, and with his innate sense of occasion, Fëanor would have preferred to declaim this from the steps of a palace, but it would not wait. Certain matters had to be dealt with immediately.

There was one whom had not attended, but it would take little time for a message to fly to her ears. Fëanor remembered the conversation he had been privy to, after Finrod's song-duel. Glorfindel had reached out to to Vanimórë and enclosed the three of them within a steely globe of privacy.

 _Influence or possession,_ Glorfindel speculated.

 _It is possible she influenced many women in Valinor and beyond,_ Vanimórë returned. _Nerdanel, for instance. She and Fëanor enjoyed passion, they must have with seven sons! and there were others, Fingolfin's wife, and Finrod's._

Fëanor considered. It could very well be true. The wife who had given him seven beloved sons had not been the woman who had rejected him, and left his bed and home. For all his own selfish reasons for wooing and wedding her, the sex had been good at the beginning. Nothing would have altered the passion he felt for his half-brother of course, none at all, but he felt sympathy for any-one who lost desire, and doubly so were it taken from them.

_In Valinor her powers would be strong, but that does not preclude her touching those in Middle-earth. And perhaps there were those who could not be influenced: Aredhel for instance._

Fëanor was amused at the thought of even a Power trying to drain Aredhel's vitality. He was fond of his niece. According to Glorfindel she was happy enough in Imladris. He wondered how long her contentment would last.

 _Some would be easier than others, no doubt. They would believe what they were told: that their desires would fade, that it was simply a part of their nature._ Vanimórë spoke with irony threading the alien lilt of his voice. Fëanor listened, fascinated trying, as he always did, and with penetrating acuity, to unravel the mind behind it. He knew of Vanimórë's history but most importantly, at least to him, Sauron's son had saved his own. Maglor was almost mute on the subject, as Maedhros was of his own torment. Fëanor understood, though as their father, he would have shared their pain.   
He understood Morgoth, but had not known Sauron, and so Vanimórë, and his gallantry in releasing Maglor from imprisonment, interested him, this half-Maia born of darkness, elevated to godhood. 

_What sense,_ Vanimórë mused. _is there in quenching desires? The Laws against loving ones own gender were given because such unions do not produce offspring. And the Valar wanted many children born in Aman._

 _Only at the beginning,_ Fëanor interpolated. _And there were indeed many born. But there was no war in Valinor and so, no death. No doubt they did not want a vast population; many millions might prove harder to control._

 _Well, less than that number were ultimately impossible to control, were they not?_ came the wry response. _The Eruhíni were not meant to be controlled. This they must come to understand. And people do hate to be wrong. Confront her._

Now Fëanor waited as Maedhros and Fingon rose, and walked to him. Their steps were slow, their faces shuttered lanterns, gravity shielding brightness. Fingolfin came to stand beside Fëanor, who was both warmed and roused by the partisan support. He cast a hot glance at his half-brother, but Fingolfin did not acknowledge it. His face was stern. He knew what was to come.

Fëanor reached out, took his eldest son's hand, the right hand that had once been lost, and Fingon's.

“Long ago, beside different waters, in the hope that perhaps the Noldor could indeed live by their own laws, the two of thee didst pledge thy souls to one another and named Eru Ilúvatar as witness.”

There was a silence which spread outward like a still pool to the very edges of the great concourse.

“From that moment thou wert wed and, as we know, vows sworn before the One cannot be broken even by death, unless He release us.”

Exclamations of astonishment scattered through the onlookers.

“My brother, Fingolfin, had presentiments of his own death,” he continued as his brother's fingers curled about one wrist and gripped hard. Fëanor smiled like a salute.

“It is true.” Fingolfin's voice rang clear. “I had been aware of my eldest son's love for Maedhros for a long time. I witnessed their marriage, and others were privy to it. However, even as the Long Peace laid down its years, I knew it would not — could not — last, and I knew also that I would die.” He paused, and Fëanor murmured into his mind with sorrow and lust, _My gallant beauty._

Fingolfin affected not to hear. He stood like the High King he had once been, strikingly beautiful, proud as any self-proclaimed God.  
 _Not so unalike..._ Fëanor quoted words from long ago.

“My second son Turgon vanished into Gondolin." Fingolfin worked control into his voice, although probably only his half-brother and Glorfindel were aware of it. “When I died, the mantle of High Kingship would fall upon Fingon, but our people, though free of the chains of Valinor, still lived according to the Laws the Valar gave us. Some things are not easily discarded.” He paused, waiting, as Fëanor waited, as Glorfindel waited and saw, far off, what they had expected once this thorny issue was broached.  
“I did not know if the Noldor would follow one who loved another man," he continued. "And that man one on whom the Oath sat so heavily. _I_ told Fingon it was his duty to marry and get children, knowing that the marriage I witnessed at Lake Mithrim was valid, and no other could be. The blame is on my head for all that happened after. I let it be known Fingon sought a wife, and the Lady Rosriel was put forward by her father. No Mortal Man ever bartered his child more eagerly than did Ornélion.”

Fingon would have spoken then, but Fingolfin raised a hand.  
“One good thing, one shining thing, did come out of that marriage.” His smile suddenly burned out at Gil-galad. “But such a union could never have been one of love. I hoped, however, that there could be friendship and respect.” His voice flattened. “As I now know, Ornélion loathed the house of Fëanor and sought to drive a wedge between Fingon and Maedhros using his daughter. And I was willing to let her be used. I was judged and punished in the Void, and will accept any new judgment our High King wishes to bestow.”  
Fëanor laughed into his mind but when he spoke his face showed no trace of it, and his words flickered with anger.  
“But there is one who used Lady Rosriel more with more cruelty than any.”

Silence, save for the rustle of the wind through the leaves and long grasses. People frowned, looked at one another. Then a noise rumbled through the quiet: the horses who should have been resting after their voyage were coming at a gallop, pressed into service by Rosriel and her court.  
It looked as if they might ride straight through the feasting Elves, but they rose and flowed aside. Rosriel drew up, putting out an imperative hand to Borniven to help her down. Diamonds flashed in her hair like stars.

“Hold!” she cried.

“We were waiting for thee, lady.” Fëanor's voice subsided into uncharacteristic mildness. “For this does concern thee. I hereby annul thy marriage to Fingon, son of Fingolfin, for it was no true marriage. He was wed to Maedhros beside Lake Mithrim long before thy birth.”

“Such a marriage would never be valid,” Rosriel exclaimed, her scorn like acid. “It cannot exist.”

“They took Eru as witness. There is no higher authority,” Fingolfin responded. “I am to blame for the deception wrought upon thee, lady, but no doubt,” and there was a bite to his words. “Thou wilt be happy to be released from a union which was abhorrent to thee.”

“A marriage _must name Manwë and Varda as witness._ ” Rosriel's eyes spat hatred over the standing Elves.

“Wouldst thou suggest that they are above the One?” Fëanor stepped up to her, and she fell back, drawing aside her soft skirts as if from mud.  
“Well?”

“The One gave them the authority, and I swear to thee, thou madman, that I am the true wife of Fingon and will remain so for eternity.” She put up her chin and her smile was sly. “Unless the One deigns to speak and say my marriage is annulled.”

And still they were not going to reveal to her that, if Rosriel adhered to the Laws of Aman, it would, in fact be Maglor whom was her true husband. Even now, Fëanor thought, and with every provocation to do so, they would not publicly shame the woman.  
  
“The coming of the new Valar overturned all the Laws. Eru spoke with his action.”

“So _they_ say.” Borniven spoke up.

“The Valar are not Gods, nor are they infallible.” Glorfindel let the insult pass. “And some of them sought to imprison and control the Elves; a soft, passionless prison. It is over.”

“I wonder,” Fëanor mused, walking around Rosriel and thrusting a fuming Borniven aside. Erestor caught at him, frowning, but Borniven showed no inclination to tangle with Fëanor.  
“We come swiftly to the meat of the matter: ever since the Quendi entered Valinor, they were influenced by the Valar, and when the Noldor departed, we could not shake off those lingerings habits. The Valar and their Laws followed us, because they had the power to damn our souls.” And Fëanor threw back his head and shouted into the sky. “Varda Elentári, thou didst touch too many of our women, so that their desires faded, and thy touch soured Rosriel from her birth. Women of the Noldor, hast thou not found thy bodies awake to passion since returning to Middle-earth?”

There was a ripple, then a wave, a bloom of color like flowers springing up from the grass. They said nothing, but it was all in their postures, their eyes. Many were with husbands whom they had married in Valinor or Beleriand, others with new-found lovers, some of the women stood together, hands clasped. One of them stepped forward: Edlothiel, wife of Penlod.

“Sire, is this true?” She pitched her voice to carry. “I think we have all felt this rebirth of desire. But _Varda?_ ”

“The Lady of the Stars knows what we should be.” Rosriel swung to face her.

“And what is that?” Edlothiel demanded.

“She knows that this filth men and women have to engage in to bring forth children is _only_ for the bringing forth of children. Only that. And after that is accomplished there is no more need for it.” Rosriel jabbed her finger at Fingon. “And the swinish sin _thou_ doth roll in...! An eternity in the Void would not be punishment enough. All the agonies a body can endure, and more should be — ”

Fingon said gravely, breaking through the tirade: “For the deception I ask forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness? From _thee?_ ” she sneered. “Hadst thou listened to me, lived as a natural husband, thou might have been spared — although I do not believe it; thine offenses were long-standing. And the taint was passed to thy son. I could not save him either. But I am blameless. I did as a good Daughter of Varda would do. And I _rejoiced_ at the manner of thy death, and thy son's. it was fitting.”

There was a sea-murmur of anger from the Noldor at Rosriel's vindictiveness.

“A Daughter of Varda?” Fëanor asked.

She threw him a vengeful look.  
“There were many of us. The Immaculate Lady speaks to us in dreams. We are to live in purity untarnished by the base hungers of the body. But when my father told me it was also my duty to wean Fingon from his friendship with the damned Fëanorions', I saw my way clear. Some of us are required to make sacrifices. My Lady.” She spread out her arms. “Speak for me! For thy glory and for my house, the House of Mahtan and Nerdanel who suffered marriage...”

Fëanor abandoned all attempts to hide his laughter.  
“Oh, Varda.” His mouth held the curling smile. “Nerdanel was an enthusiastic lover for many years. And she would freely admit it. Do go on,” he encouraged. “I am all agog. But I would speak to the Immaculate Lady, not her mouthpiece.”

“The Dark will claim thee back, _sinner,_ ” Rosriel snarled. “Though I detest such congress, Fingon is _my husband._ ”

Fanari, who was standing by her mother, said, “Rosriel, would it not ease thee to be free?”

Rosriel ignored her. “Heed me. Thou may spout nonsense for the credulous to lap up, but _I do not believe Glorfindel is a Vala. I do not believe Eru would confer power on one who spills his seed into other mens' bodies._ ”

“Varda saw what happened in Fos Almir, ask her,” Glorfindel suggested, his fire contained, for it must not be directed at the woman. “If she indeed answers thee, and not merely influences thee, if she admits it and does not turn her face to the wall and sees only that which she wants to. She lies to thee, Rosriel, she always has. Those Elves who prayed to her all these Ages — ” His eyes flamed blue wrath. “might as well have asked aid of the northern ice.”

There should, Fëanor remarked later, have been lightning in the sky, a shower of stars bright enough to gleam even in the daylight. There was, instead a voice, falling from the air, touching them like cold dust. It was, he said, anti-climactic. Like Valarin sex, no doubt.

“Fools,” the ash said, and then hissed, all malevolence: “We tried to guide thee to righteousness and were repaid by rebellion. But no Elf can escape destiny, and we are thy rulers! There is still time for thee to repent and return, _or be damned._ ”

“Thou art impotent,” Glorfindel told the ash, biting his words out.

A thrum of astonishment and fury swept through the gathered women, and their faces were bright and wild with sudden appalled discovery. Edlothiel said in disbelief: “ _Varda?_ How can one who has never loved, never born a child, never known the pleasures of lovemaking, never mourned...” She gasped and sought for words through her outrage. “In Eru's name, I reject thee. _Thou hast not lived!_ ”

The air seemed filled with dust. It smelled like snow, like age-old ice, through it Varda snarled: “Things of clay, things of _filth._ Thou wilt beg for me ere the end.”

“Lady,” Rosriel implored, “ _Punish them._ ”

The sifting dust became ice, the brush of snowflakes.  
“Thou hast failed me. I do not concern myself with failures.”

“And thou hast no power here.” Glorfindel suddenly blazed gold, a torch that sent the cold dryness swirling. “Begone!”

A scream echoed in their ears, a razor of bitter hatred and fear, but even that held nothing but a sense of stagnation, of rust.

Rosriel wailed. And then she sprang; not at Fingon, whom was standing further away, but at her son. One hand fumbled at her girdle and something glittered as she leapt, and brought it down.  
Gil-galad had turned at her cry. She had become a thing of madness and rage, her mouth open, shrieking unintelligible words. On reflex, he grasped one wrist. She clawed with her free hand and lunged at his throat.

Maedhros, Fingon and Tindómion pulled her off. It was not easy; she seemed imbued by manic strength, and struggled like a cat until Glorfindel pressed power onto her mind. Abruptly, she fell limp in their arms.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Fingon pushed back his son's hair, seeing the marks of teeth on his throat, scratches that narrowly missed one eye. The small dagger with it's needle point lay on the grass. He swore and called for wine.

“Take her away,” Fëanor commanded. “And any of thee who count thyselves as her supporters, thou wilt be guarded until I have decided thy fates.”

“Thou hast no authority over us,” shouted Borniven.

“Art thou afflicted with madness also?” Fëanor struck the other's chest with the flat of his hand, sending him reeling back into Erestor's arms. “I am High King. Wouldst thou contest that? Well?”  
Borniven saw death in the burning eyes. His mouth worked. Erestor said sharply: “Be quiet, fool, or be accounted a traitor.”

Fingon took a wine-soaked cloth from some-one's hand, and pressed it to Gil-galad's wounds.

“Did Elbereth drive her mad, or was she always thus?” he asked through his teeth.

“She never had a chance,” Glorfindel said. “Her father raised her in hate and prepared her too well for Varda.” He looked at Fëanor who shook his head and said, “No, I cannot punish her She must return to Tol Eressëa.”

“Sire, if she goes back, is she still not within the purview of the Valar?” It was Fanari who spoke, and Glorfindel who answered.  
“Yes, she would be.”

“And Varda?” she pressed.

“Thou wouldst be her advocate?” Fëanor raised his brows, seeing the trouble in her face. “After all thou hast seen?”

“Sire, I used to believe that she had been soured by the fact that her husband — ” Fanari inclined her head to Fingon. “loved another, for I what woman would not be? Now...could she ever have loved any-one, with Elbereth's hand upon her? Is there not a chance that free of her, Rosriel might be healed, love her son at the least? for one thing I could never comprehend was that she did not love him.”

Tindómion whipped around.  
“Wert thou not watching when she tried to murder him? How canst thou pity her, mother?”

“And I saw what the both of thee and others too, had to endure because of her.” Fanari crossed to her son. “I do not bear her any love, but I think the woman she might have been was slain in childhood by twisted hate, by Elbereth. Who put it into Rosriel's mind that to love another man – or woman, was punishable by death if not Elbereth? No-one _knew._ It was only when Glorfindel returned that we learned the breaking of that Law did indeed carry the most terrible penalty. And by then, it was it was already a fact in the minds of most of the Noldor. At first I pitied her and then I hated her as strongly as thou, but whom was it my hate and thine own was directed at? Rosriel? Or Elbereth?”

“Fanari is right,” Gil-galad said, and Tindómion turned back to him, his expression incredulous. “Istelion, poison was poured onto her since her childhood. Her hatred was unnatural. I have never known my true mother. And she has been used and left...broken.”

“ _But she tried to take thy life!_ ”

“Perhaps — or was it Elbereth's last throw of the bones?”

Tindómion gazed at him, and dropped his head in one hand.  
“Elbereth.” He made the name into a curse. “She used her, and now discards her tool...I hope thou art right.”

Fingon laid a hand on his back and with the other, drew his son close.  
“I would have killed her without thinking had she harmed thee, Gil,” he murmured. “But I think there is truth in this. What mother could truly hate her child? I could understand her hatred of me, but not her treatment of _thee._ Is it not more likely that a Power who has never known a child would hate one, rather than a true woman?” He drew back, looked at Maedhros, who nodded and then at Fëanor. Fingolfin touched his half-brother's wrist, moved into his field of vision. The diamond-bright eyes focused on him.

“What in the Hell's art thou looking at me like that for, all of thee?” Fëanor demanded, incensed. “I could not find it in me to hurt a woman. Far less one tainted by Varda. But she must be close-watched and guarded.”

“I will watch her,” Fanari offered, and Edlothiel stepped forward with a brisk nod. After a moment, Cúraniel joined them, with a long look at the woman who lay as upon the ground. Gil-galad gazed at Tindómion, who closed his eyes, murmured something, then knelt and picked up the unconscious form.

“That thou wilt not.” Penlod vetoed the ladies suggestion with a snap. “Perhaps she is likely to be more mad now Varda's influence is withdrawn. If either of thee think sitting with a woman whom is likely to try and claw out thine eyes when she wakes, think again. I have no authority over thee, Lady Cúraniel, but...”

“ _No,_ mother,” Erestor said firmly.

“Therein lies the problem,” Glorfindel agreed. “I doubt Rosriel knows even whom she is. Her mind teetered on the brink of collapse when I touched it, and when she wakes she will be unmoored and in shock. Who knows what she will do? Yet I cannot keep her asleep forever. I would trust Irmo and Estë to watch her in the gardens of Lórien, where others find healing, but for all we have friends in Valinor, I do not trust those whom have been deposed.They have more power there and can be cunning.”

“There is another way.”

The voice came, as Varda's had, from all about, but this was like the pour of hot wine.

Glorfindel lifted his head as if he could see the speaker. His eyes narrowed in thought, then widened again.

“Ah,” he said on a note of revelation. “I did not think of that, Vanimórë.”

“I know, Golden One, so I thought I would just give thee a little...nudge, as it were.” the voice smiled.

“What?” Fëanor asked of the air.

“Rosriel was stripped of womanhood by a Power,” Vanimórë's voice said. “I know of only one, greater than Varda Elentári, who could heal her and give her back what was stolen.”

“ _Greater_ than Varda?” Fëanor repeated.

“I had not heard of her either, for she has never dwelt in Aman,” Glorfindel told him.

“Then whom is she?”

“She has many names.” Vanimórë's tone held complex memories. “And she is a double-edged sword. But she is all women.” ~

~~~


	37. ~ The Tracings of Memory ~

“What is this about, Glorfindel?” Fëanor asked with fraying patience.  
Rosriel was lain in her bed-place. Warriors had escorted her followers to their own tents, but at the moment the lady's supporters were subdued, and there seemed fewer than had been rumored. Rosriel had not had time to gather all of them, and it appeared some were not willing to speak out after the unmasking of Varda.  
A cluster of her maidens gathered at the tent flap, grave faced but with the same sparkling anger – and shock – in their eyes as was in all the women. One of them came with a coverlet of rich furs and Fanari caught her eye, recognizing her from Mithlond: Ihúnfuin, whom had suffered when Rosriel found her slipping away to see one of the Teleri mariners.

 _Or was it Rosriel at all?_

“We will tend to her,” she said quietly. “Why dost thou not go for a walk? The feast still goes on. Go, all of thee, has not the High King promised that no harm will come to thy lady?”

They went then, with relief. No doubt they, caught and held closest to Rosriel, were eager for freedom.

“Glorfindel?” Fëanor repeated.

“We wait,” Glorfindel told him.

“For what?”

“For the Mother.”

“The _Mother?_ ” Tindómion folded his cloak over his arm and looked frowningly from Gil-galad's troubled face to Glorfindel's. For a moment he thought Glorfindel referred to Rosriel. He had loathed her because she had treated her son with contempt and become, as it were, the mouthpiece of the Valar on Middle-earth.  
Her hatred had always seemed excessive to him, but he had never dreamed it had any other cause than bitterness and the illogical fear felt by those who considered love of another man a sin. He had never seen her so silent and still. Her face, cleansed of vitriol, was peaceful and beautiful, as if some poison had run out of her, which in a way, it had. He did not know now if he hated her or Varda, and he pressed his hands to his eyes.

“One might say that she _is_ Arda,” Glorfindel said. “She was never one of the Aratar*. She is...more. Different. She is what all women truly are, every facet of them. Varda would have hated her for that and her influence on the women of Valinor would have been deemed...unwholesome.”

Tindómion saw the thoughts flick through his grandfather's mind, and the head-shake which he unconsciously mirrored.  
“Thou doth interest me exceedingly Glorfindel,” Fëanor murmured, his eyes narrowed with speculation. “Do tell us more. And what does Gorthaurion have to do with this?”

~~~

The dancer had gone from camp to camp, but the men laughed and sent her on her way with jeers. Her tawdry skirts were torn and stained and her copper bangles clanked hollowly. Rolls of flesh surged down from her stomach and her breasts sagged. It was late and most were asleep as she trudged heavily across the earth to the furthest fire.

The caravanserai was full, and had spilled beyond its gates. With the war over the trade roads were alive again and this land, much debated stony Harondor had become a mercantile vein between Gondor and the Harad.

Edric of Dale and his brothers had done well out of their long journey to Umbar and were planning their next. Their fortuitous meeting with the two Elves had greatly facilitated their success, Edric had opined more than once. They did not ask how the black-haired one knew the south, for there was something about the one who called himself Vanimórë that discouraged prying. He had offered the information that he was acquainted with the Haradhan peoples and this had proved to be true. Edric knew he would have been grossly cheated but for the Elf. He had, he admitted but only to himself, been unprepared, thinking he could hire a guide in Gobel Ancalimon, which no doubt he could have, but not one whom acted as guard, guide, interpreter and was also familiar with the markets of Umbar.  
He asked for so little: coin for clothes, food and wine and when he had suggested that he be paid the balance of his fee in shares. Edric was more than pleased, for he foresaw a long and profitable business ahead of him.  
The journey had been longer and more arduous than he had expected. Nothing had prepared him for the heat, or the unexpected cold of the nights and he was distrustful of the Southrons. But Umbar, that tumultuous, teeming city of many tongues, its palaces and markets and wicked streets, made a great impression upon him.

Vanimórë found them lodgings in a decent inn built about a shady court, hammered out a price which Edric agreed was reasonable enough, and lead him to the houses of a canny merchant who specialized in goods from the north: smuggled, Edric realized, or until now, when he hoped the trade-lines would re-open. The two men, surprisingly, formed a friendship, and the northerners found themselves spending a revelatory and guiltily enjoyable evening at a small house of luscious gold-skinned women.

Edric had reason to believe that the two Elves were lovers. He had seen and heard nothing overtly intimate pass between them, and certainly the dark Elf's brilliant violet eyes lit upon women with interest, but one would have to be blind not to see the fair one, Elgalad, worshiped Vanimórë, calling him his lord. And, Edric thought, Vanimórë looked like a lord, more, a king, and warrior king at that. Edric was a shrewd man and one knew such things went on. As long as it did not go on in his sight, he did not care. He was more shocked by the slender, painted youths that beckoned to him, laughing, from stone balconies. The Elves were at least discreet. A sinful city, Umbar, yet he lingered, wrangling over the price of goods to carry back to Dale and Esgaroth, perfumes, spices, beautifully woven rugs. Dhrathi, the polyglot merchant expressed an interest in the sumptuous furs of the north of which Edric had brought only a sample with him, for he had not thought that folk who inhabited a hot land would be interested in furs. Not so, Drathi corrected him. Surely Edric knew by now that the desert nights were cold? At this point Vanimórë proved himself useful once again, for he said that he had skill in trapping, and meant to spend some time in the north, thus he himself could supply Edric with furs.

And then, one day as Edric counted his profits and prepared to leave the city, great ships flying the pennons of the Seven Stars of Gondor, and the Ship and Swan of Dol Amroth berthed gracefully, bringing King Elessar and Prince Imrahil to Umbar. The Corsair fleet had been destroyed in the war, and word ran that rather than face the _terror of Gondor,_ the ruler of Umbar meant to come to terms with it's king. So, Edric stayed longer, meeting with men from Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, which induced a homesickness in him to see his own cool, green lands once more.

Once crossing the Carnen river at Gobel Ancalima, Edric pressed on across Harondor, stopping at a small caravansary not long before sunset. The roads were far busier than on their southbound journey and there were no rooms available, but many travelers were camped without the walls. Vanimórë purchased wine and roast meat, and took it back to the camp. The two wagons were drawn up and a fire lit. Further away the palms that fringed the dark Malduin river clattered softly in the breeze. It was already cold and the moon sat serene and pregnant in the east.

There were no other fires beyond theirs, and Vanimórë always pitched his tent apart from the traders. Edric was used to it by now and rather studiously ignored it. Vanimórë did not need the separation to make love to Elgalad, but he did require they be alone.

Elgalad had been overwhelmed, but intrigued by the sights he had seen. From behind the concealment of his veils, he observed the dramatic sunrises and sunsets and the people they passed and mingled with on their journey. Vanimórë knew that eventually he would settle in the Harad and that Elgalad would come with him, but to give Elgalad any kind of life, Vanimórë needed wealth and power. That would come, he had no doubt. He had ruled Sud Sicanna once; he could rule a city, even a nation, again.

He sat down, returning the brilliant smile lifted to him, and unstoppered the wineskin. Elgalad drank and leaned against him. Sounds of laughter and music came from other camps, closer to, Edric and his brothers argued comfortably over their cups.

“It will b-be summer when come t-to Rhovannion,” Elgalad murmured. Moonlight filled his eyes, touched the silver of his hair.

“And thou wilt be glad.”

“Of course. But...” he paused. “I will n-not go to back to Lasgalen.”

“Because of Malthador,” Vanimórë stated. “That has nothing to do with thee, my dear. And Thranduil would know it. Indeed, he probably does know it.”

“There w-was something dark in Malthador, a h-hatred of the _Golodhrim,_ but I w-would not have seen him d-dead,” Elgalad turned to him. “Thranduil is a w-wise king, but h-he will not l-love thee for that act, and I – will not hear th-thee miscalled by those wh-who do not know thee.”

“My dear, thou doth shame me.” Vanimórë traced the delicate line of Elgalad's brow. “It shall be as thou sayest, but do not think I carry any guilt for killing Malthador. It was a fair fight. I was not a Power then. We fought. He lost.” Behind his eyes something flared feral and dangerous for a moment, before it faded into the unfathomable purple depths.

They watched the moon rise until it doused the nearer stars. The camp-fires died down and men slept. And then came the gilded touch of Glorfindel's mind, and Vanimórë stilled as he witnessed what happened far in the east where the sun shone over a sea of blue shadows. Elgalad sensed the alertness in him and waited until his lord's attention focused once again.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “I thought there had to be some explanation, apart from those ridiculous laws and _customs._ ” His teeth shone in a smile. “Yes, of course I will tell thee, and then I should also tell thee what happened long ago, in Sud Sicanna.”

When he had finished, Elgalad said, “My p-people refer to Arda as _she_ m-my lord. And the seasons also. I have n-never known why, nor asked. It seemed f-fitting.”

“Perhaps having never lived under the Valar, they were more aware of her,” Vanimórë mused. “Certainly no _man_ can help Rosriel after ages under Varda's influence. But the Mother likes to be asked, and Rosriel knows her not, nor is in any state to ask. And I, at least, have met with the Mother before.”

The sound of a heavy tread and wheezing breath reached their ears, and they watched the stocky figure clamber her way slowly up the small rise toward their tent. Cheap bangles clinked together and there was a stench of sweat.

“I will dance for a copper, lords.” The woman sounded weary, as if she had said the words time and again and been rejected so often that she could infuse no feeling into the dull monotone. She spoke in the tongue of the northern desert tribes, but Elgalad, whom had listened on their journey and had the Elven facility for languages, looked at Vanimórë. He could see that she was old, and perhaps ill and the one thing in the Harad that roused him to anger was beggary. Elgalad could not understand how men could accept it and worse, ignore it. Reaching quickly for the wineskin, he refilled his cup then rose and offered it to the woman. She stared at him and snatched at the cup as if he would change his mind. Glancing at Vanimórë as she drank thirstily, Elgalad was shocked to see an amused smile curling his lips. His lord never disdained the poor, and Elgalad opened his mouth to say something when the women spoke first – in Sindarin.

“He is too good for thee, dark beauty.”

“My Lady, I know it.” Vanimórë bowed.

She held out the winecup again and Elgalad refilled it mutely.

“Didst thou think I would not know thee, Lady?”

“Men _see_ very little. They _see_ a fat old women.”

“I _see,_ ” Vanimórë said, “A woman. And in the name of a woman I will ask for thy help.”

“For a price,” the Mother stipulated. Her voice had lost its weariness, deepening into velvet.

“There is always a price. What wouldst thou have, Lady?”

She drank again. A hand came out to touch Elgalad's frozen, bewildered face.  
“It should be this one. I should take him from thee.”

“And perhaps thou couldst,” Vanimórë replied calmly. “But thou doth know more than I, and I think thou wilt not.”

 _And one day, son of Darkness, thou shalt wish I had._

Elgalad had moved closer to Vanimórë. He said respectfully, firmly, “Lady, no P-Power, or Elf or Man c-could take me from my l-lord.”

She laughed softly, like a mother over the passionate pronouncement of a young son.  
“Fear not, child of Light. It is not I who will reft thee from thy lord.” She turned to Vanimórë and said: “Dance for me.”

Ancient secrets passed between them along the line of a shared smile. Vanimórë inclined his head.  
“I will.”

All the fires were down now, curled into nests of red embers. The moon bestrode the night and spread it's light over the whispering palms, the river, the barren land which rolled to the west.

Vanimórë laid a hand upon Elgalad's shoulder and then offed his cloak and unloosed his vest, his belt, slid the boots from his feet and eased off his breeches. He shook free the long braid of hair and turned the motion into a slow spin on one foot, face raised to the moon, arms outstretched.

Elgalad did not know that Vanimórë had performed this dance for Morgoth and Sauron, but he did recognize the sinuous movements of the Haradhan women, melded with the athletic exercises of a warrior. The light ran down him like water, sliding over hard muscle and the river of hair. There was a drumbeat in Elgalad's mind, the primal music of the earth that the wood-Elves heard and had danced to in the most ancient days and did still, becoming intoxicated on it, creatures of joy and lust; celebrators at the the shrine of the world itself.  
At her shrine, Elgalad realized as his own heart beat in time with it and he was roused, hard as his lord who danced to the old woman – the Goddess.

Vanimórë dropped to his knees before her and above his flung-back head, Elgalad saw a maiden's sweet breasts curtained by dark hair, and then, as Vanimórë rose and whirled, he saw her queenly and tall, her skin polished ebony, shaven skull set proudly on a graceful neck. Vanimórë's fingers painted delicate patterns in the air as he knelt again and slowly leaned back. The moon sculpted his ribs and abdomen out of white stone and his arms undulated as he leaned back until his head rested upon the cold earth, his body an offering. And Elgalad saw the old woman again, and her breasts were heavy with the nursing of every child ever born and her stomach stretched by the carrying of them.

The stars and moon froze. Elgalad throbbed with the aftermath of orgasm.

“Oh yes, I remember thy dance.” She spoke as if from a deep cave, out of smoke and darkness.

Vanimórë's voice smiled. “Is it enough, my lady?”

“It is enough. Of course I know of Varda and what she has done. The Elf-woman, Rosriel is my daughter, all women are, but I wanted,” she added, “to see thee dance again, and on thy knees to me.”

Vanimórë laughed softly and without rancor as he came to his feet. She reached up and kissed him, then walked toward Elgalad. Somehow, he had gone upon one knee and she looked down at him and she was beautiful as the world is beautiful – and as perilous. She raised him and her mouth took his, tasting of wine and rich tilled earth and spring-water.

“Thou hath a great love. But try to keep some for thyself, Meluion.” And, looking over her shoulder. “Farewell for now, dark lover.”

She walked from the camp like a queen through bowing courtiers and somewhere deep in the palms, a bird called.

Vanimórë drew Elgalad close and kissed him until the moonlight blurred. He had not asked what she meant by her words.  
He already knew.

  
And far away a woman walked into a rich pavilion, and there was power around her and within her eyes that outranked any the Elves had seen before, and like Vanimórë, like Elgalad, they bowed to her. Each of them saw their mother's eyes in hers, save Gil-galad and she paused to touch his face with a look of compassion and tender love.

“Leave her with me,” the Mother said. ~

~~~

~ “Varda thought women should be untouched and immaculate,” Glorfindel said. “She and Dana were as different as ice and fire. And perhaps there was jealousy too. Varda wished to be worshiped and glorified, the Mother desired worship in...other ways.”

The Mother was sequestered with Rosriel, but her presence was all over the encampment. It was not, however, a new sensation. It was familiar to them, and always been there, something heard in the breathing of their blood in the quiet of night, felt in the growing and dying of Arda. They had never known it in Valinor, for the Mother had never set foot there.

“Rivalry among the goddesses,” Fëanor looked amused. “Tut, tut. Any-one would think they were human.”

“Father.”

Fëanor looked up.

“I did not know thou wert here, Glorfindel,” Celegorm paused. “But it is as well; there is something I would ask thee.”

Fëanor read the strain that molded his son's features and put out his hand.

“What is it?”

Celegorm prowled the inner chamber of the pavilion, then came to the trestle table and laid a hand on it. His long fingers curled and he stared down at the cloth under them, before looking up.

“This matter of Varda's interference with the women,” he began.

“Thou doth have doubts?” Fëanor asked.

“Rather the reverse, father. I more surprised that I did not think of it before, but then, in Beleriand, we believed that the Valar had forgotten us, save Ulmo.”

“Then what troubles thee?”

“We have all noticed that the women here have been different since we landed at Mithlond, but if Varda's influence wanes on the women who dwell in _Aman_ – ” His eyes moved to Glorfindel's. “I need to know if Finrod would remain there with Amarië.”

Laughter jumped like a white flame in Fëanor's eyes. Glorfindel's reaction was a hard look.

“Perhaps he will,” he said with a touch of ice.

Celegorm's fingers opened and slammed down. “What he felt for her was not love !”

“And whom art thou to know that?” Glorfindel demanded. “He _did_ love Amarië, and perhaps their marriage could have been one of passion had it not been for Varda's meddling. Perhaps,” he could not resist adding. “it might be again.”

“He did not love her as he loved me.” Celegorm's chin lifted in that idiosyncratic Finwean gesture of sublime arrogance. “Wouldst thou want him to settle for less than his desires?”

“What _I_ want would involved his giving thee such a thrashing as would take the flesh from thy bones. Do not ask me what _I_ want ! I am concerned with what my brother wants.”

“He always wanted me,” Celegorm flashed. “Thou hast reason for thy anger and so do I, but I tell thee...”

“Peace !” Fëanor flung up a hand. “Dost thou so soon forget what Finrod declared to those who sought to break him? That the legendary love of Beren and Lúthien was no greater than his for thee?”

“I heard him, father, but I know well, as dost _thou,_ ” he threw at Glorfindel bitterly, “That Finrod has ever done what is right. If his wife goes to him and ask that their marriage be resumed...”

“No,” Glorfindel spoke more quietly, but his effort at control was apparent. “Valinor was not quite stagnant, and certainly is not now. The women have their own lives, and Amarië deserves more than to be wed to a man whose heart lies elsewhere. The same is true of thine own wife.” He swept a glance at Fëanor, who laughed ruefully.

“That is very true, and I have no expectation of Nerdanel coming here. I also see no reason why there should not be _second_ marriages, but then thy stiff-rumped father rules in Tirion.”

“This lifting of influence will not act as an aphrodisiac,” Glorfindel said. “People will simply be as they should be, without any outside influence. And there will be those who continue to believe the Valar and will live much as they have done. There will still be those who speak out against love of one's own sex. And then, there will be those who will be freed. Each person is unique.”

“Rosriel, or rather her beliefs still have followers here, Mother or no Mother,” Fëanor agreed. “As for thee, my son, I believe Glorfindel is right.”

“And it might be better for thee were Finrod not to come,” Glorfindel told Celegorm. “Neither thy father nor I will accept killing in this new realm, but I will look the other way if he comes here to humble thee.”

Celegorm burned up. “Even an he could, he would not !” But there was a look in the pearl-black eyes which was like a trump of challenge – and purest exhilaration.

~~~

“Thou art not very concerned that by the time Finrod arrives – and yes, I think he will – he will have had ample time to dwell on exactly how he would like to extract an apology from thy son,” Glorfindel remarked when Celegorm had gone.

“Thou hast said there will be no killing.” Fëanor sounded, and indeed was, unconcerned. “Thy beautiful, serene brother, who knew what lay that perfectly constructed facade? I would rather enjoy seeing him lose his temper, not,” he added, “that I blame my son for his own feeling of betrayal. I would feel it myself.”

“Of course, uncle,” Glorfindel looked at him with exasperation writ clear. “Thou wouldst come first, beyond any sacred Oath.”

“Well, of course.” Fëanor widened his eyes.

Glorfindel went from the pavilion before he damaged something. And what infuriated him the most was that while Fëanor had deliberately goaded him, he meant what he had said.

~~~

Fëanor found his half-brother talking to a group of men who were to begin the opening of a quarry. They need not survey possible sites of ores and stone, for Glorfindel had provided them with maps of those areas. And both the High King and Prince would be at those quarries and in the mines, working as hard as any of their men and with great enthusiasm. Fingolfin rolled back his sleeves as he went down the list the overseer had drawn up. He looked up as if he felt Fëanor's presence, which of course he did, and raised his brows, eliciting a blazing smile.

 _So much like the old days, is it not?_

 _No._ The silent response was curt. It deepened Fëanor's enjoyment.

“This is the closest quarry to obtain the granite?” he asked, coming to the table. Fingolfin had pinned down the vellum against a playful westerly wind.

“Yes, but we will need to lay a hard road and build quarters for the men before we begin.”

“I thank thee for reminding me,” Fëanor responded gravely and was rewarded by the briefest twitch of Fingolfin's mouth.

“We will also need timber.”

“Glorfindel has told me that Legolas can feel the trees which could be felled, where the wood is still sound but the trees nearing the end of their lives, or those choked by close-growth or fallen in storms.”

  
The Noldor preferred to work in stone, but when they had need of wood they had always been careful to re-plant trees. Even so, the Silvan Elves were yet more caring of the trees they loved, even while they also used timber. Fëanor would not have set axes to fell the ancient trees of the Wildwood without care; he was as much a part of Arda as any Elf, but he did not have the sensitivity of one whom had lived in the Great Wood, and he inclined his head.  
“Very well.”

“We will begin marking the road tomorrow,” Fingolfin said, and then seeing that his half-brother was not about to leave, he excused himself with that wonderful courtesy which had made him so beloved, and walked apart.

“Well?” he asked.

 _I was wondering, in the light of what has happened, what wilt thou do if thy wife should come here to claim thee?_

Fingolfin stopped and turned to face him.  
 _She will not. I do believe both our wives were touched by Varda, but it did not make them fools. They suspected our relationship. Even if Anairë wished to resume our marriage, she would not come. She has too much pride, and so does Nerdanel._

 _She would come if thou hadst asked her forgiveness._

When they stood this close, there was nothing in the world but Fëanor; his face the last vision Fingolfin had seen as he died, broken under Morgoth's shadow. It had been a gift, he knew. Far from his people, from any touch of love at the end, dying as Manwë and Námo and Varda had wanted him to die, Fëanor's spirit, unquenchable even by Eternal Night, had witnessed and been with him.

 _Mayhap she would. But I would not ask forgiveness for something I do not – regrettably ! – regret. And she knows it. I will not demean her with lies !_

Fëanor burned so brightly that Fingolfin thought he felt the heat of him.

 _How unfortunate it is that we are so over-watched here. Come, walk with me._

 _No,_ Fingolfin's refusal was flat and absolute. His half-brother always, _always_ knew how to prise the truth out of him. _It does not alter my feelings on this matter._

 _Brother,_ Fëanor's eyes laughed, but somewhere in them was complete understanding. _What lies between us cannot be undone, and an Age of thy denials will not make it any less true. Dust may be sifted over a diamond, Nolofinwë, but all it takes is one touch to reveal it!_  
He whirled away, a force of fire and pride and terrible beauty. Fingolfin glared at his back before returning to the men, who were, ironically, pleased that there should be such amity between these two half-brothers whom had, in Tirion, barely been civil to one another. It would be amusing, Fingolfin admitted, if he felt no guilt for the desire that drew him ever toward that unsheathed flame.

~~~

They moved as silently as autumn mist over the ground, running with a light grace which belied their speed. Behind them the lake vanished in into glinting blue distances, and rough-crowned hills tumbled beside them, rising from the flat shoreline where wild sheep grazed. Though no word was exchanged they paused and looked back into the bright east, then turned and made their way up a valley that cradled one of the many streams laughing their way down to the inland sea.  
Almost directly below them, the roof of a house shone warm with withy-thatching, and before it was a low-walled garden where grew lichened apple-trees.

Approaching from level ground, it could be seen that a balcony ran it's length, giving an unexpectedly formal air to the house. A long outbuilding stood a little apart and three horses grazed in a meadow beside the little river. Paths of stone lead from the house to the outbuildings and down to the river and flowers entwined themselves around the balusters and up the stone walls or spilled over hand-thrown pots. The men themselves were clad in the garb of hunters, but the tanned hide they wore had been worked soft as linen and the leather of their belts and harness was tooled in flowing patterns. The glint of silver showed at their ears. The black feathers that spilled down their long braids were shockingly stark against the pallor of their hair.

The house was silent, but the door was open to the sweet air and there was the smell of baking bread. The one who entered behind them was as silent as they, but the two had known him a very long time, and turned as his shadow fell across the stone flags.

He stopped mid-step as he saw their faces, and said: “What is it?”

“There are _Golodhrim_ come to the eastern coast,” one of the hunters answered, his voice hard as his eyes. He strode to where a jug of mead stood. It must have just been brought from the cellar, for it was still cool. He poured three measures into drinking-horns, beautifully chased with silver and swallowed deeply.

“Thou art sure?” The question was swift.

“Oh yes, and so wouldst thou be, hadst thou seen them.”

“How many?”

“Thousands; every damned _Golodh_ whom ever was born, it would seem.”

The Elf in the doorway glanced over his shoulder and then back at the hunters, his face grave and very still. The flood of light backlit his hair, frosting the steel grey like shot silk and as he moved to take the mead, it still glimmered in the shadows. His eyes were moss-green, but the two pairs that stared into them were deep blue – and very cold.

“They did not see thee?”

“Of course not. We did not get close, but we saw their tents going up.”

“There is no reason,” the grey-haired Elf said carefully, “For thee to see them again.”

“Is there _not?_ ” one of them demanded. “The _Golodhrim...!_ Ah, never did I think Fate would grant us this opportunity!” He flung back his head and laughed, and it was a terrible sound, wild as a wolf's cry in the waste and as lonely. But he was not alone; he had never been alone, for the one who stood beside him was the reflection of his soul, and each would have followed the other into the Void.

So alike these two, their faces bearing the shadows of others long dead. An expression could flit across them like a shadow over water, and Daeron would see a woman like a star, a silver-haired king, and a queen lovelier than any song he had ever made.

“Eluréd.” Daeron's voice had been likened to all the melodies of water: deep and powerful as a swollen river, or delicate as the golden censer-showers of spring rain. Now it came taut as his harp-strings, shorn of music.

“How could we ever forget those who attacked Doriath, who slew our mother and father and so many more?” Eluréd hissed. “Especially when they are here !”

“Thou hast seen the _sons of Fëanor?_ ” Daeron stepped forward.

“We saw their banners. We were taught their devices in Doriath. Yes, Daeron _all of them._ ” There was something exultant in his eyes. “All of them – and the father also!” ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aratar* The Powers of the World, the Valar of Aman. The Mother was never counted among them and never dwelt either on Almaren or later in Valinor.
> 
> In case any-one wonders why Elgalad saw the Mother as a young maiden, a woman in her prime and an old woman, here is the explanation:
> 
> The Threefold Goddess.
> 
> Spanning many traditions found around the world is the concept of the Goddess as being threefold. These perceptions shared associations with the moon phases, with the growing seasons and with the phases of a woman’s life. Most frequently they are described as Maiden, Mother and Crone.  
>  With a strong connection to the Earth and its cycles, it’s not surprising that this view can be found in so many cultures.
> 
> From Hubpages.
> 
> In a fic I wrote for Esteliel. (Dreams of Gold) Vanimórë danced for - and with - Legolas, with swords. Any-one who has read the series knows Vanimórë has danced all his life, for Morgoth first and then for Sauron. This dance for the Mother was without props, but naked out of respect to her, and would be very like the one writen of in Dreams


	38. ~ Broken Silver ~

  
~ Ingwë's gardens were a riot of color. Wildflowers tumbled down white walls, swirled about pillars, spilled from alabaster urns. A bright stream dropped over seven terraces into a deep pool, and glimmered through the lawns to continue on its journey to the sea.  
Behind and above them, Taniquetil loomed in white magnificence. Finrod had never before considered how it had always dominated Tirion and Valmar, as if to overshadow them.

“I will not tell thee that thou art a fool but,” Ingwë paused. “I well remember Fëanáro.” He turned those blindingly blue eyes on Finrod. “Hast thou never wondered why we Vanyar removed here, to Valmar?”

Finrod frowned. “To be closer to the Valar, we were always told.”

“True.” Ingwë reached for the crystal jug of wine and poured a pale flood into two goblets. “It began as subtly, I suppose as Melkor's hints to the Noldor. Manwë and Varda were... _concerned_ about the Noldor. Their minds were too curious, they were apt to be lead astray, to delve into matters that should concern no human. Some of course, were delighted with them, such as Aulë, but _we_ came to believe ourselves,” his smile went a little awry. “the especial favorites of Manwë and Varda, and I admit, to my shame, we reveled in it, sought to emulate them. We men desired to be as Manwë, wise and noble, and our women as Varda, beautiful and untouchable. There were never as many Vanyarin children born as the Noldor or Teleri because we believed what they told us and in our pride at being so favored, we fought our bodily hungers and triumphed over them. It happened to all the kindreds here, I know. But first to us. This is like waking as we did at Cuiviénen.”

“Yes,” Finrod said. “I returned to sleep, and have woken again. I shall not sleep again.”

“Let me tell thee something,” Ingwë murmured. “I was asked to place the women of my house with the Noldorin royal house to, one assumes, leaven the over-fierce blood there.”

“Anairë and Amarië were _sent_ by thee?” Finrod demanded.

“Yes, and at the time I deemed the Valar wise.” Ingwë's smile became hard. “The marriage of my sister to Finwë was a successful one, after all. But then came Fëanáro, and he was like no-one who had yet been born. He also eluded any plans set for him by wedding Nerdanel so young. Anairë was sent to tame Nolofinwë. Thine own father, I believe, did not trouble the Valar, and found himself Earwen, whose mother was Vanya. Arafinwë suggested Amarië go to the Noldorin court, and spoke of thee as a good husband for her.”

“She did not know this?” Finrod felt the disapproval emanating from Taniquetil like a weight on his back. It was a weight he could bear. His own fires of anger still burned high.

“No, of course not.”

Finrod rose. “I wonder if I ever knew my wife – or she me. I was Finrod Felagund in Nargothrond, as true to myself as I knew how to be without...” One hand clenched into a fist. “I am sorry that Amarië should have been able to hear my words to the Valar, although she has been gone from me a long time. But that, I now know, was not her fault.”

“No; that was the Valar, and here in Aman their influence is stronger than it was on Middle-earth.”

Finrod had felt it his duty to speak to his wife when he learned that all Valinor had been shown his song-duel. Amarië had no love for the Noldor. The first heated words of their relationship had flared from Finrod's decision to leave Valinor. Amarië could not have gone with him even had she wanted to, for the Vanyar did not leave Aman. And now Finrod had to wonder whence that law came.

“The Valar told us we were too fine for the lands of Middle-earth.” Ingwë answered his question after a moment of silence. “Of course we believed them. It was never a _law_ as such, it was simply something we did not consider. When the Noldor left we thought them mad. There was always something incalculable and dangerous about them, we told one another, and most of us believed Valinor would sooner return to its former glory without thy shadows.”

“But the Vanyar fought in the War of Wrath,” Finrod pointed out.

“Yes, and were proud to be asked. Yet after the battle, we were...herded to the encampment of the Valar, and did not leave it. What we had seen was terrible.”

“There was great beauty also,” Finrod said softly.

“I _do_ remember Middle-earth. Knowest thou how many of my people died in that war?” the High King asked suddenly. “Thinks't thou that we were under the protection of the Valar? The war broke the lands, there were earthquakes and tempests, bitter blizzards, floods that rose so fast they swept people to their deaths. The Valar showed then that they considered us little more than disposable slaves, pitting us against armies, orcs and trolls and great wolves, while they cracked Beleriand asunder and went unscathed. After that, I had...doubts of their supposed love for us, but I made myself believe that they had no choice.”

“I did not know.” Finrod's eyes were wide. He had not taken part in that war, neither had any of the Noldor of Aman. It had been forbidden, both by the Valar and by Finarfin.  
The War of Wrath was to be the end of the tragedy of the Noldor. They would be accepted back, not to dwell in Tirion, but upon Tol Eressëa, which became, in fact, a prison island...

Finrod had hoped, believed for a time, that those whom had died might return, as he had.  
They had not.

“Their fate is not in our hands.” Manwë's voice had been filled with cool sorrow. “Most will abide long in the Timeless Halls, others...they called the Everlasting Dark down upon themselves.”

“They knew not what they said,” Finrod had protested. Manwë had raised his brows in delicate reproach, and replied: “Perhaps, but such an Oath can never be revoked.”

Finrod did not know how he had lived with imagining souls lost in the Void, save that there was nothing he could do but...live. Amarië had never been able to understand his feelings for those whom had slain their kin, and he could not explain it to her.  
Now she, and every-one else knew.

He had slept after his confrontation, a sleep like none he had ever experienced, dreamless and comforting as the sleep of a child in its mother's womb. When he had woken he had felt fire-cleansed — and still furious.

Arafinwë, he was told, had left the palace for Ilmarin, but Finrod's household remained, and in his chamber waited Orodreth, Angrod and Aegnor with Edrahil, whom had been one of the greatest lords of Nargothrond and had died, as had his king, in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. They had all been long in the Halls of Waiting, but once released and reborn had come to him with love. It seemed their love had not been destroyed by the revelation he had desired Celegorm Fëanorion. 

Had.

His intention to speak to Amarië had been deflected by Ingwë, who bore a letter from her. To Finrod, reading the missive, it appeared it was not Celegorm's gender that horrified her, but his bloodline. She had not been the sort of woman to harp upon one subject; after he had returned from death, she had welcomed him, spoke of the folly and madness of Fëanor and his sons, their dreadful acts, then said no more. Neither was it something he wished to speak of to her or any-one in Valinor. Finrod knew she bore a deep hatred for the House of Fëanor, and now she informed him that she felt as if she had lived a lie as his wife, and repudiated him. Nevertheless, he had ridden to Valmar through a land that seemed silent and muted, and found that the doors of the house of Indis were closed to him. Part of him was glad, and he was ashamed of it, for it freed him without guilt — and yet there was, inevitably, guilt. It was too easy.

“Something came into the world with Fëanáro,” Ingwë said now. “Nothing the Valar could have done would have tamed him, and it touched well-nigh all of the Noldor. The Valar feared what he might become. When he died there was celebration in the halls of Ilmarin. They called him dark, twisted, said that his soul had fed upon his mother's and drained her of the will to live, that he was ill-begotten. And other things...”

“And I am fool to have loved one of his sons?” Finrod said, as if to himself.

“Tyelkormo betrayed thee; Amarië believes thee to have no pride.”

“Oh, in Eru's name...! I do not intend to throw myself at Celegorm's feet.” Finrod's eyes burned ice-blue. “He did betray me. He cursed me. I am not even sure what I will do or even feel when I see him. There is murder in my heart.”

“And rightly.” Ingwë clasped his arm. “But in fact, I think thou hast no choice but to leave. And thou may have to admit there is another reason for thy wife's decision.”

Finrod gazed at the High King for a long moment, and then laughed. There was a bite to it; the teeth raked against himself. He thought of their gentle courtship, their serene marriage.  
“Of course. How not? Poor woman. I was so dissatisfying a husband? What did she say?”

Ingwë traced the patterns on his winecup. “Many of us men were not the most inspired of lovers here in Aman.”

Finrod drank off the wine. “Obviously.” He stared into the past. “And the other reason for my leaving, Lord Ingwë?”

“Thou hast made enemies. Námo tried to kill thee.”

“I do not intend to remain here, but I will go in mine own time, and not because I am afraid of Námo.”

“There are great changes happening here.” Ingwë waved one slender hand toward Taniquetil. “There are enough to ensure that no physical war happens: Oromë, Aulë, Tulkas, Irmo among others, but who can predict what will happen? And I personally would not trust either Námo or Manwë, or any who support them. They have had power too long to accept what has happened. They cannot kill thy brother, but they can harm thee.”

Finrod considered this for a moment, brows drawn. “They will not,” he decided. “I think they will not risk the consequences. Surely Morgoth and Gorthaur are not the only Ainur to be cast into the Void. Besides, I doubt they enjoy pain.”

Ingwë nodded, his face showing sudden hardness. Ages of servitude, even if willing, simmered under his blue eyes.

“I do have unfinished business in Middle-earth.” Finrod's smile was tinted with iron relish. “Men have a saying. I am, in their words, going to make my fair cousin _sweat._ ”

Ingwë saluted him – and then laughed.

~~~

They remembered. Their early years had been rich with beauty and love, although a sorrow lay on the forest like the first mists of autumn; the loss of its rulers, the death of Lúthien. And then blood and war come upon them like lightning out of the grey winter sky, as unstoppable and far more deadly. They remembered the eyes of the _Golodhrim_ under their helms, the dreadful fire burning behind them. Red hair, raven-black, a great braid of creamy-white, and a voice, harsh and cold: “Take the mongrels. I will deal with them. Wait for me!”  
  
Hard hands bound them and they were told, as they were slung before the warriors saddles, that Celegorm Fëanorion would cut their throats, for they were of Lúthien's blood, she whom had rejected him. There had been a seemingly endless time of being jostled and jounced before they were thrown down on cold earth, in a bitter wind that raked the treetops. Dawn had come, and it was bleak. Dead winter. Snow on the air.

It was no place they recognized. They were young and had never ventured far from Menegroth. Their wrists and ankles were bound so tight that they had lost all feeling in those parts.

The warriors argued. One of them said: “There was still fighting. We must return to our prince. I do not like this. He should have been hard behind us!”

And the one that had bound them and threatened them with death replied, “He said he would follow.” Then: “He would want me to carry out his last orders.”

“His last orders were to hold them until he came, Saewon. Leave them.”

There was a curse. A foot had kicked out, landing hard on Eluréd's knee.  
“Thou knowest how he feels about the blood of Lúthien. If _he_ cannot kill them...”

“He will kill _thee_ if thou doth dare to disobey him.”

The twins could feel Saewon trembling. They froze as he handled them roughly, squeezed their privy parts in metaled hands, before he was dragged away.

“Prepare thyselves, little mongrels,” he hissed. “My prince will rape thee and kill thee as he does.”

Then there was the ring of tack, hooves thudding on turf and silence, but for the whimper which was all their throat, scraped raw with screams, could produce.

The _Golodhrim_ did not return. The twins pain and thirst increased, and when the snow began to sift down from a sky the color of ash in an old hearth, they opened their mouths to catch the flakes on their tongue.

When their rescuer came, they were sinking into a slow, tormented dying.

His feet were silent, and his hair was black, but his eyes a strange gold under sleek brows drawn hard with concern. He cut their bonds and unstopped a skin of wine. It had gone to their heads and helped when the blood began to push back into their hands and feet.

He had lead them away from Doriath, this man, who said he was no stranger to the forest, though he was to them. His name, he told them, was Lintalómë.*  
But for him, they would not have survived. He was an expert hunter, knew how to seek out shelter, make skins from the hides of animals, and when they came to the spine of mountains in the east, he killed the hardy sheep and tanned their fleeces. They came down into the green land beyond in spring, and one day at dawn Lintalómë lead them into a dell where a stream ran like liquid crystal under a shrug of rock crowned with birch. There was a cave there, but the one whom had been using it was absent.

He came later, when they had built a fire and were roasting a grouse, and he was Iathrim, the twins knew, as soon as he opened his mouth and spoke in that antique, formal tongue. His hair was a frosted steel-grey, his eyes dark green, and when they learned his name they were as astonished as he was on hearing theirs.

It was perhaps fitting that Daeron, whom had loved Lúthien, should take her descendants into his care.

Lintalómë did not remain with them. He left them after a few days, preoccupied with matters that passed in the world beyond the Ered Luin. They stayed in that sweet place until the seasons turned again, and then began their long journey into the east.  
  
They had met with Dwarves, with Men, with Elves to whom the wars in Beleriand and the north of the world were either rumor or unknown. At times they dwelt with these Avari and learned their ancient, unexpectedly rich customs. They learned from all they came in contact with, and became skilled in many things, but they were wild and strange.

Dor Calen, they called this land to the west of the inland sea. Here the great plains hunched into pine-clad hills and small valleys thick with timber. Here they built their first permanent dwelling, lovingly and with great care, although they left it in the spacious summer to journey into the plains, and sometimes spent many seasons away with the Elves of the northern forests.

They were content here. They traded pearls, chunks of amber and _metheglin_ with a tribe of Men on the eastern plain,s and brought back tough, wiry horses which they used to carry their trade-goods back to the Men or to their kin in the forests. They were hunters, but husbandmen too; they guarded the wild hill-sheep against fox and wolf, carded their wool and spun it to make covers for their beds. They grew flax both for its fibers and oil, kept hives for honey and wax, and needed for nothing, for what they could not obtain for themselves they acquired by trade. Only one thing was lacking: they had believed they could never take revenge upon the kinslayers, and he who would have murdered them.

  
They had heard, as all Elves had, when Glorfindel reached out to their minds, opening them to the knowledge of what had come to pass in Valinor. But what did it matter to them? Daeron however, had met Glorfindel at Mereth Aderthad, and the Fëanorions too. These were great matters, and he had gone apart to think on them.

Daeron had been first their guide and guardian, a father-figure for the unhomed youths. He bore sorrows as did they, but he did not carry that sorrow with him as Eluréd and Elurín carried their hate for the Fëanorions, a weight of rage and fear tempered by Ages. They rarely spoke of it, but Daeron knew them well. They thought of Celegorm as the Elves whom had woken at Cuiviénen thought of the shadow-shapes that haunted the highlands, something terrible and monstrous.  
And now...

Daeron decided he must see for himself. Did he not hate what had been done to Doriath? But he loved these two, who bore the beauty of Lúthien, and the Noldor had been the mightiest warriors of the Elder Days. And they too, knew how to hate, how to seek revenge. If the twins did succeed in killing Celegorm Fëanorion, that act would perpetuate more violence.

“There may be no chance to kill him,” he said as the mead in the jug went down.

“We will make a chance,” Eluréd said flatly.

“How?”

“Was not Celegorm a great hunter?” Elurín asked with a sidelong glance. “Riding the lands with his hounds and horses? I doubt he is changed.”

Blue eyes met blue. Identical winter-cold smiles curved their mouths. Beautiful, these two, with the face of the one gone from the world forever, but never had Daeron seen that expression upon Lúthien's face, the look of a killer.

He loved them, but something in their souls had been damaged in Doriath. They sought solace in pain and in one another, and who was he to tell them it was wrong? He had been drawn into the net long ago.

It was late when he returned to the house. He was not tired, but he went to the bedchamber which smelled of summer flowers, to the wide bed where he sank into a feather mattress, and did not sleep. There were stars in the window, breathing softly with the pulse of the night.

They came, as he knew they would, silvery shadows that lay each side of him, heads on his breast, legs sliding over his. Their breath was warm and honeyed as they raised their mouths to kiss him, and one another, their slender, dangerous hands tracing down to his groin.  
They did not speak as they roused him and themselves. They never did. Daeron knew what they wanted; he had from the first night they had come to him. He could feel, as he had then, the welts upon their firm buttocks and thighs, knew that in the morning their tunics would hide bruises.

 _Broken silver,_ he thought, as he parted Eluréd's thighs, hearing his moan of hunger, and Daeron entered him with shame and need. The hot tightness was still slippery with his brother's seed, but there seemed no end, in these moods to what they could take, to their unassuagable lust. Elurín's hardness was swallowed by his twin's mouth as Daeron drove in deeper, more violently. The ache in his groin consumed him, became him, until he broke with a curse and a cry. And then it was he, leaning on his arms, stretched and filled as they slammed into him, one after the other, leaving bruises on his hips, and there was pain and feral pleasure in the darkness.

They fell asleep holding him and he was shrouded in frosty hair and languid shame.  
  
 _Broken silver..._

He woke to the smell of honey-cakes and hot cyser. The twins were sitting at the table in the kitchen, and their faces were marble-calm, sated. The deep looks they turned on him were the only visible indication of the night.  
It had always been so.

Eluréd leaped up.  
“Here,” he said gaily, pouring the drink. “Eat, drink. The cakes are good. Didst thou sleep well?”

 _Broken silver..._ ~  


 

~~~


	39. ~ Of Fire and Water ~

~ “Well, how goes it?” Fëanor asked as Gil-galad entered the pavilion.

Fingon handed his son wine. Gil-galad took it but did not drink.

“I did not see Rosriel,” he said slowly. “I saw the Mother.”

She had spoken to Fingon also. They waited.

“She said that Rosriel's personality was – the word she used was _poisoned_ by Varda's influence.”

His father nodded, eyes veiled. Fëanor turned to his half-brother.

“Well done,” he said to Fingolfin. “I must say I have never heard of any Elf arranging a marriage with Varda.”

Fingolfin cast him a hot look. “I do not need reminding of my mistakes.” His tone was forced into hard control.

“I could have refused,” Fingon said. Father and son looked at one another in a silence wrought of guilty confusion.

“How many of us would wheel time back in it's track to change our actions?” Fëanor mused. “It is done. The true victim of this is Rosriel then, and to a lesser degree all the women of the Eldar.”

“So, she will be as she might have been?” Fingolfin asked.

“It is more complicated than that.” Gil-galad drank with a wry smile cast at Fëanor's acidulous: “It would be.”  
“She will remember all of her life. And she may still hate us. Apparently, Varda chose those whom were most apt to her own views. But Rosriel was only a child.”

“At least it will be her own hate, not Varda's. I would not expect love or understanding from her.” Fingon took his son by the shoulders. “No women, no nor man either, could be accepting of that travesty of a marriage. I wed her and was not free to do so. Hells, I did not wish to be ! I allowed others to bed her – ”

“She need never know that,” Gil-galad said. “If she was never told before, there is no reason to tell her now.”

“I am extremely surprised by my sons and grandson's restraint in keeping that from her under immense provocation,” Fëanor murmured. “But no, Gil. Whom will look after her? I assume she will need it.”

“Lady Edlothiel will take her into Penlod's household. Fanari knows her as well as any-one, and perhaps one or two of Rosriel's women, although none of them bore her any love.”

“Fanari is willing?” Fëanor raised his brows.

“She did not object. Penlod is not pleased, but no-one else came forward. The Mother will also come here. She says she is everywhere.”

“Well, if she is the opposite of Varda, that will make many people happy.” Fingolfin permitted himself a smile. “What of those who came with Rosriel? Those who bear _us_ no love must be floundering.”

“They will rally around Borniven.” Gil-galad looked a little amused. “Or Erestor more likely, due to his rank and position. Their quarrel is not with the Mother, but with us, we who are _unnatural._ ”

Fëanor laughed out. “That could be very interesting. I shall have to meet with Erestor and advise him he needs to continue to play this game.”

Fingolfin's eyes snapped to his brother and blazed like Helluin's fires. Fëanor let the moment lengthen and then broke it at the height of it's tension.  
“Come with me.” It was a casual order.

“I am sure thou canst meet with Erestor alone,” Fingolfin responded, his manner suddenly remote.

“Allow the High King to decide. We will speak to all those who came with Rosriel, _formally._ ”

Fingolfin made a brief gesture of assent.

“What else, then?”

“What _else?_ What else dost thou wish for?” Fingolfin demanded.

“At this moment absolutely _nothing_ would surprise me, my dear brother. And I mean that.”

“Please do not tempt any Powers,” Fingolfin said with a glimmer of unwilling laughter. “I know at least four who would need little excuse to make thy life more... _interesting._ ”

“I _exist_ to be interested, Nolofinwë. And stimulated.” He turned to Gil-galad. “Mahtan's bloodline are never cold. It may be, left to grow into her true self, Rosriel may come to love thee.” His look was warm.

“If she hates me, it will be nothing new. And if she returns to what she was, she is among people who would not raise a hand against thy rule.”

“Thou art loved.” Fëanor told him. “If she hates thee she must live with it or depart. And true, Penlod does not love me, but he will be loyal. And where is Istelion?”

“With Maglor, I believe.”

“Almost I think I should lock the both of thee up together, but anticipation is addictive.”

“Please do not interfere, uncle.” But Fingon was smiling.

“I had to _interfere_ to show my eldest son that his love for thee was not wrong,” Fëanor reminded him and Fingon shrugged and shook his head.

“And for that I do thank thee.”

“I can handle Istelion,” Gil-galad said with something of a snap.

~~~

“I can handle Gil,” Tindómion was saying to Maglor at that moment.

“He needs thee, a great deal.”

“He has me.”

“Not the way he wants thee.”

“No, father,” Tindómion smiled, but it faded soon enough. “And I have always been his, if he cared to claim me. He is alive, and here. That still breaks over me like a cold wave. But thou hast no need to be told that feeling.”

“No. I know it.” Maglor's eyes went dark with memory. “I understand. Come, I have seen a place where I would like to build, I would like to show it to thee.”

“I assumed thou wouldst live in the palace.”

“Undoubtedly. We all will, all we sons, but I am used to solitude,” Maglor paused and his son impulsively reached out to touch his face, limned by the evening sun.  
“And there are other reasons.”

Tindómion said nothing. What could he say? The more time he spent in Fëanor's company, the more he observed him, the less surprised he was at his father's guilty desire and Fingolfin's tortured sensual love. When Fingon and Gil-galad emerged from Fëanor's tent, heads together Tindómion gazed at them and knew Gil-galad must feel the weight of his eyes. So it had always been with them, and so it was now. Gil-galad looked up.  
 _Starfire. Wildfire._  
Blood calling to blood with a clash like a weapon's edge.

“I could strangle Varda,” Tindómion snarled. “And I hope to Eru that Gil does not harbor hopes of his mother loving him. Because if she does not...”

“He is loved.” Unconsciously Maglor echoed his father.

“A mother's love is different.”

“I know it is.” _Eru, did he not know?_

“Mother always called me a Fëanorion. Thy son, but I am no less hers. And what was so different in her life that she could love me, and Rosriel could not love Gil?” Still they looked at one another across the space as Tindómion spoke. “She knew thou wouldst not love her, she told me.”

“Yes, it seems she did know,” Maglor said quietly.

“She was besotted with thee, wove imaginary futures around thee nevertheless. And she did indeed see thee.” He put out a hand. “But she still loved me.”

Maglor's fingers grasped his. “Despite the shame I feel, and ever will, for that act of violence, I can rejoice in thee, and that Fanari loved thee.”

“What is so different, then?” his son demanded, as if he were speaking both to Gil-galad and his father.

“Perhaps the Mother knows, for I do not.”

Gil-galad turned away, threw a look back over his shoulder. It beckoned without words.

“He wishes to speak with thee,” Maglor pushed him lightly. “Go.”

Tindómion took a step forward, saying under his breath: “I know what he wants. I know what _I_ need. And thou knowest it is not _speech!_ Damn it! a tent with fabric walls is no place to pursue our relationship.” Spinning back, he saw his father was laughing at him. Reluctantly, a smile came, bright and rueful.

“ _Adar!_ ” he exclaimed helplessly, then kissed him and strode away.

Maglor watched, still smiling.

A rustle of skirts sounded behind him, and Fanari said, “Thou hast no notion how like Lindon this is, with those two. It is reassuring, in a way, and infuriating.”

Still discomforted in her presence, and accepting he deserved to be, Maglor replied, “So he has told me, lady. He became used to playing that tune too long, I think. They both did.”

“They had to.” Her voice went hard with anger. “Thou art right.”

“He asked what the difference was between thyself and Rosriel.” Heat flushed along his cheeks.

“I was not married,” she said calmly. “Even if Rosriel did not love Fingon even at the beginning, she is proud. That would be a bitter drink to choke down, day after day. And yet, I would prefer to think that it was Varda who twisted her feelings toward Gil-galad.”

“He was a beautiful child,” Maglor remembered. “So loving. What...what was Istelion like?”

Fanari smiled, shading her eyes from the sun as she gazed west. “Probably like thou, lord Maglor. I wish I could have talked to thy mother. And he too, was very loving.”

“Lady Edlothiel does know that Rosriel hated him, and thou also? Yet she would take her into her household?”

“Oh.” She turned to him, her eyes amused. “I suggested it. because if Rosriel yet comes to hate those of us she hated before, I will know it. I have observed her too long to be deceived. She tried to kill her own son, or rather Varda compelled her to, but even the Lady, the Mother, cannot know what Rosriel will be like. She needs to be looked after, it is true, and she most certainly will be. Her whole life has been utterly ruined.” She took a deep, furious breath, then went on more calmly, “But it is only prudent that she also be watched.”

~~~

“Stay here until I return,” Daeron exhorted the twins. Usually they listened to him; an old habit from their youth, but the arrival of the Noldor to the east had shaken them. There was fear there, under the hate, and Daeron had never succeeded in making them understand that when he had attended Mereth Aderthad, sung with Maglor, spoken to the High King Fingolfin, spent many days in the company of the Noldor, he had not found them monstrous. But that had been a time of hope for all the Elves of Middle-earth and the threshold to the Long Peace, and yet, even in the sweet summer of the Feast, Daeron had seen the haunted gleam in the Fëanorions' eyes. The oath had wound itself into the roots of their souls, sending out tendrils like black ivy. Under their glamor and startling beauty, it waited to flower into a bloody bloom of death.

“We will look for thee coming back. Thou wilt not go to their camp?” Eluréd watched him with those blank, lovely eyes.

“No, but I believe they would not harm me. I have dealt with the Noldor before.”

“But thou wilt not?” A rill of pure fear sparked and Daeron said reassuringly:

“No. I go to observe only.”

“They will stay,” Elurín said flatly. “Just as they did in Beleriand. They will take lands where they please. Think thou they will not find this green land of ours?”

Daeron paused, as he thought: _of course they will,_ and then he said: “Glorfindel is Vala now. He will know we are here.”

“Since when did the Valar care for us?” Eluréd asked scornfully.

“Thou didst hear his words as well as I. Glorfindel has lived two lives, and he has known sorrow and pain – and death. He is an Elf.”

“He is _Golodh._ ”

“He may be, but do not forget that he died in his first life to save the lives of many, including those with Mortal blood.” That tale from the fall of Gondolin had come late to them, during their travels through Eriador. The identical faces remained stony, and he sighed.

“I can remain unseen as well as the both of thee.”

When they had first settled here, they had traveled east to map the great body of water. It was not, they knew, the ocean in the east that the Avari spoke of, for it was fresh water. At last they had come to the river that debouched the lake into the sea, and had followed it to the coast, a region of deep forests where a few scattered Avari dwelt. These Elves called the mighty river _The Vein of the Tear,_ and the inland sea _The Tear of the World._ They said that once it had been part of Helcar, and now it wept for it's destruction. It was impossible to swim the estuary, for the currents and tide races were perilous, though some of the Elves crewed small craft for fishing. Daeron, Eluréd and Elurín had therefore retraced their journey, and the next year they took the land route about the inland sea and seen the immense teeth of the mountains which had once been the much greater range of the Orocarni.

If the Noldor had sailed upriver, they must be wondrously skilled mariners or more likely, Daeron guessed, they sailed part of the way and made landfall, carrying their goods inland. If they did indeed mean to stay (and why else would so many come here?) they would have to build to the west or east of the Tear, and although Dor Calen was an hundred leagues from the southern shore of the Tear, such distances would not concern the Noldor; they had not in Endor. They were hardy, and great builders, and Dor Calen, with it's valleys and woods and clear streams, would make a pleasant realm for some-one.

Daeron had learned woodcraft in drowned forests, and knew how to move with speed and silence. He let the air bring him scents and sounds and built no fires at night, eating of the dried fruit and meat he carried with him. Often in his wanderings, he took a small harp, but not on this journey.

South of Dor Galen the hills flattened into meads where wild kine grazed in the drier spring and summer, since they were low-lying and often waterlogged in the wetter seasons. Beyond, low down-lands reared again and from here, he could see the first of the islands that formed a rough chain running across the inland sea. On the shore, long ago, he and the twins had built a cabin and hut where they moored a small boat.

He wondered if he should reach out in his mind and call to Glorfindel, whom would certainly hear him. Perhaps the new-made Power would order the Noldor not to go near Dor Galen if he knew whom inhabited it. But the gist of Glorfindel's pronouncement to the minds of all Elves, was that never again would a Vala rule them; they were to be masters of their own destiny. And anyhow, even were the arrivals to avoid Dol Galen, Eluréd and Elurín would not let it rest there. The best solution would be for them to leave, perhaps go north to the cool pine-clad regions where Avari tribes dwelt, but the twins would not go. Their old nightmare had returned and there could be no peace for them until they confronted it.

And Daeron feared that if they killed Celegorm, it would lead only to their own deaths. Sometimes he believed they wanted to die, that they knew they were damaged.

He had made this voyage across the Tear many times. They did not always cross to the further shore, but ran the boat in at one of the many islands. The wind was with him, as if to speed him on his way, and he rarely had to row.

What he saw, when he beached and covered the boat against keen eyes and continued his journey on foot to the low hill to the south, reminded him so vividly of Mereth Aderthad that he froze for a long moment, staring at the pavilions with banners raised above, the tables set out for food and wine. From his vantage point it was a brilliant tableau of color; sapphire, poppy-red, green, gold – and it was vast.

Eluréd's assessment that _every damned _Golodh_ whom ever was born,_ was here, might almost be true.

His eyes rested on a huge tent where the fireflower insignia of the Fëanorions' flaunted itself. All the sons' had born that banner, but each made it their own with an additional emblem; Maglor's a harp, Celegorm's a hawk stooping to the kill. And they were there, but the fireflower surmounted all. Fëanor himself was come, and some distance away, he saw the blue-silver star of Fingolfin.

There was much activity, and the sounds drifted up to him, riders trotted about the perimeter, or rode off northward along the shore, he smelled the smoke of fires, roasting meat, leather and horseflesh. They had brought a great deal with them and they were here to stay.

As night fell he watched fires spring up, and the Fëanorion lamps were uncovered. A strain of music wove through the air, a voice like the pour of liquid gold from a crucible: Maglor. The voice entranced him now as it had at the Feast of Reuniting, but ages of sorrow had added a richness to it like old wine. Daeron's hands strayed toward the harp that he did not carry and stilled, listening. They had once sung together, weaving beauty. There was nothing evil or monstrous in the voice.

_We must leave Dor Galen._

He did not move until dawn blushed color into the land. The _Golodhrim_ had not slept either it seemed, and went back to their tasks. Daeron lingered, but he had gauged their numbers and seen their industry. What else was there to remain for?

Three horsemen left the camp. The leader was unmistakable, and he recognized, too, the twins who rode together behind him, their rich reddish hair. Celegorm reined in, pointed south west, and there was a brief conversation, an agreement. The riders galloped away toward the west.

Daeron almost walked straight into the two _Golodhrim._ Perhaps they had taken a circuitous route from the camp in the darkness, for he had not seen them leave. Had the men not been turned away from him, they would have seen him. He melted down into the heather, cursing himself.  
But they were absorbed. One was holding a sheet of vellum, and pointing in sweeping gestures as if marking out invisible lines. The other settled a hand upon his back in a proprietorial manner and their heads turned. Daeron recognized one, the other he had never seen before save through the faces of his sons.

_Fëanor._

There was a force to him that was as tempting as wine, as dangerous as wildfire. His profile was Maglor's, and Daeron was surprised at how alike Fingolfin's was, as he saw them together.

Fëanor was smiling. The two had clearly been communicating silently, but now he spoke aloud.  
“A nice position, but too far from the palace. One might almost suppose thou didst wish to dwell apart from me.”

“My people require their own regions, places to call their own,” Fingolfin replied steadily. “We will build here, but also further away where, of course, the High King designates. ”

“We have discussed this, I desire thee...” and there was a pause while the two meanings to the word wove in and out. “Closer than this.”

Daeron watched, with a strange lack of shock as Fëanor's hand ran up his half-brother's back, clenching into thick hair. “Even closer than _this_ ”

In the moment before the kiss, Daeron remembered all he had heard in Doriath when Finrod and his kinsfolk were guests of Thingol: the long antipathy between the sons of Finwë, culminating in the treachery of abandonment in Araman. It was that which struck him, not Fëanor's blazing kiss or Fingolfin's unexpected, furious response, but that so many people had been so wrong. For this was not something new. He had been in the company of two incestuous lovers for a long time. Fëanor and Fingolfin were familiar with one another's bodies.

“Cease these games with me or I will remove to the furthest ends of this new land !” Fingolfin set both hands on his half-brother's breast and held him off.

“Thou wouldst not have come with me alone, hadst thou not expected this.” Fëanor laughed intimately at him. “And I will give thee this warning then: _Never_ let thyself be alone with me.”

Daeron felt himself stir to painful hardness as Fingolfin plunged into another savage kiss, bucked into Fëanor's groin, and heard their striving breaths.

“We have to work together, as thou hast so often said.” Fingolfin wrenched back. “There _are_ things I want from thee, I do not deny it – but I will _not_ be possessed by thee.”

“Thou already are, Nolofinwë, and always have been.”

Daeron saw two frost-silver heads instead of black, the lovemaking that was filled with need and hate. But the Finwions' did not bring themselves to the climax of their duel. Fingolfin pulled away, and it seemed that Fëanor allowed him. Daeron thought of a hawk released to fly, but one that would ultimately return to the hand of its master. And this was Fingolfin, mightiest and most famed Elven king of Middle-earth, he whom had met Morgoth in single combat. He was bright as sun-struck silver. What was Fëanor, that he could affect his own blood-brother so?

In Fingolfin he saw the same forced melding of shame and hunger as in Eluréd and Elurín. In Fëanor he saw no guilt at all. He laughed as he watched Fingolfin mount his horse.

“Look at this land, brother,” Fëanor cried after him, opening his arms as if to embrace it. “At last we have the freedom to live as we should have lived, untrammeled by the damned Laws of the Valar. This is what I always desired for us!”

“It will never be enough for thee!” Fingolfin cast back at him, wheeling his mount. “Nothing ever will be. Nothing. No-one!”

The hoofbeats faded. Somewhere close to Daeron a bee droned sleepily among the heather. He closed his eyes, poised on the brink of a decision which might be disastrous.

The air hissed. He looked up into Fëanor's face. The point of a sword touched his breast.

“And whom,” Fëanor asked. “Art thou?”

And so, it was done. But how had he been seen? That was a piece of carelessness he would have to pay for.

“I dwell to the north,” Daeron answered, maintaining his calm.

“I will have thy name.”

Daeron hesitated.

“Thy true name,” Fëanor stipulated, his eyes holding warning – and amusement. They were truly unearthly, those eyes. Living diamonds.

“I am called Daeron.”

“The minstrel of Doriath?” Fëanor looked momentarily surprised. “They say thy voice rivals my second son's. I would have to hear it to judge.”

“Thou hast heard of me?” Daeron was perturbed.

“I have had to learn many things since my rebirth. I know it was said that thou didst leave Doriath for love of Lúthien, and of grief, and none knew what became of thee.”

“It is true. I came east.”

“Glorfindel said not that there were any Elves dwelling here,” Fëanor remarked.

 _And yet he must have known._ Daeron thought. “May I,” he asked. “Get up?”

The sword was withdrawn.  
“Dost thou not wish to attempt to kill me then?” Fëanor asked, mockery rich in his voice.

“My hatreds are more personal.”

“Ah yes. Personal hate. That truly is the most...exhilarating, is it not? What dost thou want here?”

The image of Eluréd and Elurín danced before Daeron's mind-eyes and he prayed that Fëanor did not see it.

“I was curious.This place is mostly unpeopled. But Glorfindel would have told thee that.”

“Perhaps he tells me only what he thinks I should know as high king.”

“As High King, dost thou intend to cross the sea?”

“Why?” Fëanor inquired.

“It is where I dwell. I would like to know.”

“It will take a long time to explore this land and see where we would like to live. So, thou doth not desire to live even as a neighbor to we Noldor?”

Daeron was silent a moment, then he said. “I was at Mereth Aderthad. I sang with Maglor. It was not the _Golodhrim_ who drove me from Doriath, but I have no doubt that had I been there when thy sons attacked it I would have been nothing but an enemy. Just as two children were,” his voice hardened. “Whom thy son Celegorm would have killed.”

Fëanor's eyes narrowed to slits of light. “Now how dost thou know such a thing?” he wondered.

Daeron silently berated himself.  
“Some of the Iathrim came across the Blue Mountains. I was there for a time. Dior's twin sons saw their parents die and were taken away to be killed.”

The scented wind ran between them.  
“They did not die,” Fëanor told him. “But thou doth know that. And where they are, I would guess.”

Daeron did not speak.

“Celegorm asked of them, what had become of them.”

“How thoughtful of him.” Bitterly.

“As to whether he would have killed them, I know not, and nor does he. But it never came to that. And the one who took them away and left them, Maedhros slew. Didst thou come here with intent to harm Celegorm? Is that the personal hate thou didst speak of?” Fëanor moved closer. “I will let no-one touch my sons. They paid for their acts. Even I did.”

 _And Eluréd and Elurín are still paying,_ Daeron thought, as Fëanor's proximity beat on him like summer sun.

“I came only to observe.”

“And what didst thou observe?” Fëanor cupped his hands over the hardness at Daeron's groin. There was a bright wildness to his face.

“Is this...why they followed thee?”

Fëanor laughed. “They followed me for love.” He reached to loose the great braid of frost-metal hair, and ran it through his fingers.

There was no thought in what followed, only an uprush of desire. Daeron pushed the whirling objections away, and they scattered like leaves, like their clothes which were tossed down about them, until they were naked and he knelt, slicking his tongue over the dark erection, heard the groan. He drew back.

“I want thee inside me.”

“I want to be inside thee.”  
They went down, and Daeron parted his legs. There was a rustle of cloth, a pause and coolness at his entrance. Fëanor had not come unprepared; perhaps he was never unprepared, but Daeron was eager enough not to have cared.

“Now!” He slid his legs over the wide shoulders. “I want to _see_ thy face!”

He swallowed a cry as he was stretched, filled, as Fëanor drove into him and touched the gland within at each stroke. He burgeoned again and gripped himself, watching the flaming beauty of the face above him as he was driven further and further into the fire. There was power in Fëanor beyond the description of any song.

“More!” he racked out, as he was pounded into the heather and rough grass, and the fire was inside him, possessing him, and the engorged length was heavy and hard pushing him into the madness of pleasure, until he hung upon the peak...and broke.

  
“Lust is the simplest and most powerful of instincts,” Fëanor told him with a blazing smile.

Daeron knew that. He did not seeking to excuse his actions. It could be just that simple; a wordless look of shared desire, a touch in the night... And that thought brought him to the twins. If Celegorm loomed as a murderous monster in their minds, their father, was a legendary figure of terror. Daeron could not forget the blood that soaked the Oathtakers, but he had been among them and knew they were Elves as he, goaded and bound and, in the end, mad.  
Mad, as the sons of Dior were. Mad, perhaps as he was, to have wanted that savage coupling that left him with a lingering, exhilarating soreness.

“Come down to the encampment.”

Daeron raised himself, scratched and flushed with the heat of sex.  
“No. I think not.” He added, seemingly inconsequentially, but still thinking of the twins, “I spoke to Fingolfin, at Mereth Aderthad. Every-one knew that he and his half-brothers had never loved one another.”

Fëanor gleamed. “People are so easy to deceive. I have no doubt he did hate me – for a time.”

“And thou doth feel no sense of wrongness.”

“That it is taboo?” Fëanor tilted his head as if considering. “No. I think it adds a spice, and even my beautiful brother will admit that.”

_Sublime arrogance._

“I ask again if thou doth mean to cross the sea we call the Tear. There is a land there, of hills, little valleys. It is beautiful and rich in game. It has been my only true home since Doriath.”

Fëanor regarded him with those luminous, perilous eyes for a long time, then he said, “The land given to us extends from this shore of the inland sea. Does that content thee?”

“It will have to.” Daeron inclined his head.

“Did I – content thee?” The masterful hands slid into his webbed hair. “Silver-black hair and green eyes. Delectable.” Leaning closer, he whispered in Daeron's ear, “There were demons in the Everlasting Dark, tearing at my mind, laughing at me. What demons tear at thine, I wonder?” His kiss was exuberant, violent. “If thou shouldst return, let me vanquish them again.” He laughed and gathering up his clothes, he strode to his horse. His hair whipped in the wind like a dark flame.  
 _Spirit of Fire._  
Now Daeron understood.

If the twins were to kill Celegorm, they would find themselves in the path of a tempest.

~~~

_Finrod._

_Brother?_

_I do not wish to lift one finger to extricate Celegorm Fëanorion from any dangers that might beset him. But I think thou might wish to._

Finrod paused, quill hovering over the list of provisions he was making. _Why, my dear, what has happened?_

_Nothing yet, but there are old hatreds that rear their heads. Were it not for thee, I would let him face them. Anyhow, once I begin interfering in the lives of others, I run the risk of being seen as despotic – as no better than the Valar._

_I understand._ Finrod watched the ink gather on the end of his pen, and set it back in the standish. _Thou art telling me I should sail straight to New Cuiviénen. That will still take a time, brother. Now what? I claim to be first in the lists against my dear coz'._

 _There is time, I think. But perhaps thou shouldst come, dear brother._ Glorfindel added: _Quite soon._ ~

 

~~~

 

Art by Leaf.

 


	40. ~ Bonds of Bitter Beauty ~

 

  
Legolas, half-raised on one arm, watched Glorfindel sitting cross-legged and motionless. It was almost dark in the tent but for one lamp, and that was almost shuttered, casting only a muted glow. It smudged deep shadows under Glorfindel's muscles, breathed over the gilt waves of hair. Legolas had been watching him for a some time, seeing how he had withdrawn into thought – or silent communication with some-one. But watching his lover was pure temptation and demanded something more physical than observation. There was not enough real privacy here to fully explore and enjoy the erotic games that Glorfindel had introduced him to, but one could – and did – imagine them. Fëanor however, had the disconcerting habit of striding into their pavilion without apology or warning, although Legolas suspected there was purpose, not obtuseness behind his actions. Fëanor was not in the least obtuse, and while Legolas did not fear him, there was something too untamed in him to permit ease in his company. The thought of his coming upon them in the act of sex was enough to drive heat into his cheeks, though he guessed Fëanor would feel a rather different heat. The Finwions' shed sexuality like musk.

“It is nigh to dawn, and you have not rested.” The blanket skimmed down Legolas' body as he sat up. “What troubles you?”  
His voice was very quiet. Tindómion had spoken truly when he said that these fabric-walled tents were no place to pursue ones amours. Not that the lovers or married pairs cared for that; they were simply discreet. But they were also no place to discuss serious or secretive matters. The Noldor had pitched their tents as if they were mansions, with space around them, but their hearing was keen.

Glorfindel's eyes came back from the otherwhere, and melted blue-ice over Legolas. The prince's hair ran like a river of metal onto the coverlets. During the day, all the Elves, men and women, bound their hair back as they went about the physical tasks of this new life, but at feast, or rest, they loosed it. It had always been their most glorious adornment and even for war, none would have dreamed of cutting it. Morgoth's shearing of Maedhros' hair had been a symbolic act meant to disfigure.

Legolas knelt, and crawled slowly and provocatively over the sheepskins, with a faint smile lifting his lips, hardening Glorfindel the more the closer he came. He felt a flood of cool hair, a hot mouth closing over him, sucking, then Legolas suddenly straddled him, forcing himself down so hard and violently that a moan broke from his throat. He was still slick within from their lovemaking earlier, and eager, but the thickness of Glorfindel's shaft stretched him to the point of pain – and the thought was delicious. He lay back on the, bucking his hips up, his concerns disintegrating in the scorch of sensation: his length gripped and worked as Legolas rode him, the tightening fist of tension in his groin, the sounds they could not suppress, the scent of their bodies. He held Legolas' hips until the prince arched back like a white bow and shattering release throbbed through him again and again.

Legolas' hair fell like a pale cloud each side of his face as he leaned forward and murmured against Glorfindel's lips.

“Will you not tell me?”

“I was about to, but Eru forbid I should have prevented your inducement.”

Legolas laughed, flushed and glittering with orgasm. “Ah, you looked irresistible, sitting there. But you bear a vast load on your shoulders. I wanted an excuse to take your mind from it for a while.”

This was what Vanimórë needed from Elgalad, Glorfindel thought, this complete closeness of body and mind, but he could no more interfere with those two than he could – or should – interfere with any-one.

They drank wine and lay entwined around one another as Glorfindel silently unburdened himself.

 _I do not wish to be involved in this matter,_ he ended, and Legolas saw hardness like steel in this eyes. _I was tempted to let all play out as it must, but there is Finrod, and what would surely proceed from Celegorm's death, if it came to pass._

The prince digested the information through a long silence. The lost princes of Doriath, Daeron, fabled minstrel, also long lost.

 _Did you know they were here?_

 _It is not as easy as that. My mind still works as an Elf's mind does, and I believe no-one save omniscient Eru can know all things. We would have to be Mind alone, unfettered by Time.  
When Celegorm asked me what had become of them, I fixed my thoughts on them and felt their living souls. When we came here, I tracked the lands with my mind, and found them._ A sigh stirred Legolas' hair.  
 _It is not hard for any Elf or Mortal to feel the tone of another's mind, but now I can feel each thought and where it proceeds from, from seed to leaf-tip; a forest of emotions. It is overwhelming. I prefer to close it off and let our people live as they should and keep their thoughts to themselves, but there will be times when I have to look. It is an intrusion, and I like it not at all. Eluréd and Elurín might not have known of our coming, for they dwell far away, but they were hunting in this region. Thus another seed sprang forth that has lain dormant for so long. To them, Celegorm is a monster who would have raped and tortured them and killed them after. Even I do not think he would have done so, but I cannot know it._

Legolas had learned much of Doriath as a child. He had imagined armed Noldor smashing into his father's realm with lances and raised swords, and had shuddered at the images his fertile young mind spun forth. The twin sons of Dior must have endured terrors before they died – and every-one believed them slain. Now, it was revealed that they were not dead, but the horror they had felt had never left their minds. Indeed, how could it have?

 _They may not come here._ But there was no certainty in Glorfindel's thought. _And if Finrod comes, Celegorm will be far too involved to leave our encampment._

 _And that is what you are hoping for. Does Fëanor know any of this?_

 _He knows what Daeron told him. He struck near to the truth, but not into the gold, for he thought Daeron had come to see the destroyers of his former kingdom. However, Fëanor sees deeper and further than most._ Glorfindel sat up. From outside the tent came the sounds of the great camp stirring; a snatch of song, water pouring, distant voices. _I hope Daeron will contrive to take them away, or at least prevail upon them to remain where they are._

“But you do not know,” Legolas spoke aloud, very softly. “I would not,” he added. “be in your boots for the three Silmarils themselves.” At Glorfindel's look of rueful agreement, he went on. “Your brother is noble and beautiful. I know love is illogical, but how could he still love Celegorm after his betrayal?”

“I wish he did not.” Glorfindel's voice came as a growl. “At the moment, my brother is justifiably furious. But the bonds that tie the House of Finwë together are made of fire and steel.”

~~~

They listened, deep-blue eyes unwavering. At times they reminded him of the great white wolves that ran through the northern pine-forests.

Daeron had spent the journey back wondering how much he should tell them. He could not tell them that Celegorm might not have killed them. Even Fëanor had admitted his son did not know what he might have done.. The twins, anyhow, would never believe it, and he could not tell them without revealing he had spoken to Fëanor, which they would view as a betrayal. Thus when he came to the house, he told them only he had watched the great encampment and seen some that he had met of old.

“If they do not come here, wilt thou not forget this plan of thine?” He pressed on into their chill silence: “Fëanor swore his dread Oath after is father's murder and the theft of the Silmarils. Think thou he would not swear another to avenge one of his sons?”

“I am sure he will,” Elurín's voice was soft, cold. “Does it matter? Do we not also have something to avenge?”

“I will not aid thee in this matter !” Daeron rose to his feet. “I have cared for thee and loved thee since thou wert brought to me. Do not think I will help thee to doom thyselves.” He unpinned his cloak as he strode into the house. “I will not be here !”

“Daeron !” The cry was torn from them in unison. He ignored it, closed the door of his room behind him and stripped off his clothes. There were no locks on the doors, but the twins did not enter. When he had washed and changed, he found them in the kitchen. A savory stew was simmering, Eluréd was heating mead over the fire. Looking up, he quickly brought the pan to the table and poured it out. Elurín turned.

“Daeron?”

He raised his brows and took the cup, drinking deep.

“Thou wouldst not leave us,” Elurín stated, but under the certainty Daeron caught the question, heard the faintest doubt.

“I _will_ leave thee. Why should I remain. I leave thee or the both of thee leave me in death, what difference is there?”

“We will avenge ourselves on Celegorm Fëanorion and then leave this place, if thou dost wish.” Eluréd offered the palliative almost eagerly.

Daeron's cup rang as it hit the wall and bounced from the stone.

“And Fëanor will track thee ! He vowed to pursue Morgoth to the ends of the Earth! I spoke to those who heard his words !” He caught their tunics in his hands, dragged them close to him. “Thou art all that is left of Doriath and those I loved! Answer me this: _What will I have when thou art dead?_ ”

~~~

The winding creek was still under the night. Beyond Daeron it opened onto the Tear, a great sweet-breathing darkness. Clouds patched the sky, the moon brightening them to pale grey dapples.

He did not sing or play, although a song was running through his mind, plucked out of the cool water.

Fëanor...

Daeron felt no guilt at their savage coupling. The infamous _Golodh_ was as the tales had him, but far more: a scintillant flame clothed in flesh, and Daeron had wanted him with a hunger than brooked no denial. It was impossible to bring hate to bear on him. He had been legend long before his sons attacked Doriath, scarcely real to Daeron but for the shadow he left upon those who followed him. That was what he had seen at Mereth Aderthad, but now he realized it had not been the shadow left by Fëanor's Oath that lay on his seven sons, but the absence of his light. They were struck from the same metal, and their father's death had spilled flame over them but grief darkened it, as if they were shuttered lamps. And even so, they burned...

 _“They followed me for love.”_ Fëanor had said, and it was the truth. And that love was returned in full measure.

 _“I will let no-one touch my sons. They paid for their acts.”_

Mist furred the surface of the water when at last he rose. It was a damp, grey dawn, but at this time of year it would clear quickly. He threw off his cloak, offed his clothes, then dived, rinsing the night from him.

The house was silent. He imagined it burning, set afire by Fëanor in bloody vengeance, and closed his eyes. He was presupposing the twins could kill Celegorm, but did believe, given the right circumstances, they could. They were skilled in ambush and trapping and their archery was deadly. Except...Daeron doubted that they would find any satisfaction in a quick death. They would want more, they would want to hear and see their own sufferings made manifest in the Fëanorion, the demon whom had followed them all their lives.

He could not leave them, but could he convince them he would? And would that threat be enough to curb them? Ultimately, did they care whether he left or not?

He pushed open the door to their room and slowly crossed to the bed. They were not asleep. He doubted they had slept at all. Their eyes were large and dark in the gloom, their hair misty-pale about them. His own fell, heavy with water, over their entangled bodies as he lowered his head.

“If thou wilt essay to slay the Fëanorion, I will not aid thee. I will not remain to see thee slaughtered as thy family were, or to be hunted forever as Men hunt rogue bears down.”

They uncoiled, striking upright to his mouth, their hands delving into his hair. Their teeth bit, their fingers dug like iron, pulling him down into their nest of sin and sex. Eluréd's legs slid up over his shoulders, and he stared into Daeron's face, panting hard, heaving groans as he was possessed, his eyes demanding more, _harder!_ they implored him. Elurín slid around Daeron like a white serpent and thrust, moving more violently as Daeron gasped and moaned, until there was only the pain, the heat, the base, beautiful orgy of love and lust.~

~~~

“Bey-eg?”

The child stood before him, eyes huge and filled like grey wells with tears. His breath hitched as he tried not to sob, holding up two little hands, palm-out. They were scraped red and flecks of gravel were embedded in the dirt.

Beleg moved from the bench and laid aside the pale yew heartwood he was smoothing.

“Come, let me clean them.”

The boy lifted up his arms at once, and Beleg carried him outside to where a pipe of spring water poured into a trough. He held the child in one arm as he soaked a soft cloth and gently dabbed at the abraded flesh. Feeling the wince run through the small body, and murmured, “Thou art very brave, but they must be washed properly and have unguent and bandages applied. Didst thou fall?”

Under the mop of black hair, the boy nodded. “I t'ipped.”

“Let me take thee to thy mother.” Beleg cradled the negligible weight as he walked down the path to the great house.

It was impossible to avoid the child in Imladris. As soon as Túrin had begun to walk, it seemed he could be everywhere, anywhere, little legs flying along the halls or through the gardens. In that he was like an Elf-child, save he did not speak as soon as they, and his unformed soft palette fumbled Beleg's name to pronounce it endearingly as _Bey-eg._ The first time he had said it, Beleg, one of a group sipping wine outside on a warm spring evening, had almost dropped his cup, and stared at the boy, whom had smiled and then turned his head into his father's chest.

The Peredhel had laughed gently. Aredhel had looked thoughtful for a moment, before complimenting Cell on the precociousness of her child.

Aredhel and Cell had become friends, which had been good for both of them. Although one was a young Mortal and the other of the blood royal of the Noldor, both had one thing in common apart from their sex: they loved their sons.

After Elrond had left, some of the heavy tension that lay over the valley dissipated, perhaps because Elladan and Elrohir were determined it would. Imladris was touched by the sweeping wings of a storm brewed in ages past, and they must needs accept it. Maeglin had been borne there on that storm-wind, and although they viewed him with mistrust and watched him when he went abroad, they were courteous to him in public.

Most of Elrond's household had departed with him, but some Teleri had come from Tol Eressëa in the wake of the Noldor, settling around Mithlond and journeying to Imladris. Often they stayed for a season or two, and some for longer. The valley no longer felt like a lorn outpost, as it had through the long years when the Elves were departing. There were less people now, but with hope of more, for news came from Mithlond of women swelling ripe with children, something that had not happened since the Watchful Peace.

Beleg lent himself without reservation to the service of the valley. He rode with Elladan and Elrohir and began to learn the lands about Imladris. He trod the hills and narrow valleys of the Ettenmoors, journeyed into lost Rhudaur and the hill-regions south of Imladris. As he had purposed, Maeglin accompanied him and proved himself hardy and courageous when, at the end of the winter, they came upon wolves driven down from the Coldfells by hunger. He was cool-headed and wielded his Noldorin longsword with the negligent, lethal _élan_ of the Finwions'. After that encounter, back in Imladris, and relaxing over wine, Beleg had seen him smile without bitterness for the first time. It had been a merry evening. The young men, Carreg and Ness had fought likes heroes of old and were in the flushed aftermath. It was the first time they had been able to prove to the Elves that they were of use.

They continued to scout for any sign that others might have escaped from Angmar but found no trace, and the Dúnedain had likewise seen nothing. It was sobering to have to believe that a whole people might have been wiped out, but it was beginning to seem as if this had indeed happened.  
One thing concerned the Peredhel and the Dúnedain, and they found it baffling: Both the Ettenmoors and the Trollshaws were devoid of trolls. It was as if they had been sucked into the earth.

Túrin thrived. But for his faster growth, which resulted in just such a fall as had scraped his hands this day, and the lisp to his speech, he might have been a child of the Noldor, black haired, grey eyed, his skin fair as a lily. It would be ridiculous for Beleg to actively avoid him simply because he was afraid to become fond of a Mortal. There had been at least two other Túrin's in the annals of Men, Stewards of Gondor in the south where now Elessar reigned. Doubtless many others had named their sons Túrin over thousands of years.

 _But there was only one Túrin Turambar,_ Beleg thought, with pain like a shard of glass in his heart, only one bound to grief after death as the ages rolled by, now released into the peace of death forever.

Cell came running with her bliaut flung over one arm, saying breathlessly, “I turned my back for two heartbeats and he was gone!”

Beleg laughed gently as she reached out her arms.

“So it is with Elf children too.”

The child displayed his abraded palms. Cell tutted, smoothed his hair and Beleg carried him back to her chambers and sat him down. She brought warm water, an ointment that smelled cool and green and a strip of bandage. Once his hands were dressed she gave him a honey-cake and goat-milk and told him to rest until the supper hour.

“Will you take some wine?” she asked Beleg with a smile, having grown accustomed to the fact that Elves could drink without becoming the sot that her father had melted into. Lorh was a harmless wine-bibber save when early attempts to lessen his intake had caused him to become violent, threatening and cursing until thrown into one of the stables. Elladan said he would drink himself to death, to which Cell had replied tartly that she cared not at all. Thus Lorh soaked himself in mead day after day and caused no-one any problems other than himself.

“P'ease stay!” Túrin piped.

“I thank thee,” Beleg accepted and sat down beside the boy, who leaned against him, munching on the sweet cake.

Cell had blossomed, he thought, as he watched her pour elderberry wine into a cup. There had been a haunted look in her eyes, and the mens' when he had first seen them. Now she was curvaceous and confident, and walked with a straight-backed stride that swished her skirts. Her hair, braided and coiled, had the sheen of an old oak settle, and her face with it's high cheeks and wide eyes made him think of a pretty cat. It seemed more and more likely that her son would grow into a ghostly image of Túrin Turambar. A child's face always carries the imprint of adulthood, and it was there already in the boy's elegant bones, the enormous eyes with their black rill of lashes. The face he had from Cell, surely an image of Morwen, and his eyes were the bright grey of Carreg's. Túrin, it was said, had his father Húrin's eyes.

 _Let not my sorrow ever darken his heart,_ Beleg thought as he sipped the wine and Túrin mimicked him, coming up from his cup with a white stain about his mouth. Whatever showed in his expression then Beleg did not know, but the child set down the empty cup carefully, stood upon the settle and blessed him with a milky kiss.

“Be no sad,” he said. “Dear Bey-eg. My friend.”

 _“My friend,”_ whispered a ghost-voice out of the past. _“My love.”_

Long-dead hands knotted themselves in Beleg's heart.~

~~~


	41. ~ A Room With Many Doors ~

  
~ The sun sank in a sky like spilled wine as Fëanor rode back to the encampment. He had stripped off his shirt to work on the opening of a mine, and dirt clung to his torso but he was satisfied, as he was at the end of every day of labor. The Noldor were many things; none were lazy. Some, like Fëanor, studied the maps of mineral deposits, where to quarry for stone, tin, copper and iron, while others dealt with the husbandry of the herds of wild kine and goats, leather-working or smelting. It was much like their settlement of Middle-earth long ago. They established vineyards, mulberry bushes, flax and hemp, gathered plants for dyes, made kilns for baking. They planted wheat and oats and greenstuffs, gathered wild fruits to make sparkling cyser and mead.  
No day or night was idle, and their energy and enthusiasm was boundless. Quarries were being opened, the foundations for the great houses were marked out.  
  
It was a land that seemed made for them alone, and when Fëanor remarked on this to Glorfindel with a subtle query in his tone, Glorfindel merely smiled. Perhaps it had been – a place as rich as Aman, but without the rule of the Valar.  
  
Fëanor's pavilion was situated on a rise above the inland sea, separated by a sheltered bay from Glorfindel's tent, which was pitched upon another outcropping. The positions seemed a physical representation of their statuses, the High King and the Power. Fingolfin's was more than a league away, and his son's and lords had encamped around it, as Fëanor's were about him. From the air, the encampment had pattern and order, and the ways that lead between the tents were being methodically laid with stone.  
  
Offing his clothes, Fëanor drank a cup of wine and walked out, taking a narrow goat-path down to the beach. Until their homes were built and the abundant water supply channeled through them, the Noldor bathed in the clear waters of _Gaear Gwathluin._  
  
There were two here already, standing waist deep in the gentle swell. Fingolfin and Maglor, talking seriously as they washed one another, a tantalizing sight, which he paused a moment to admire. He felt himself harden as he walked down into the water.  
  
“Fingolfin, I need to speak with thee.” He received a raised hand in acknowledgment and a, _In a moment._  
  
 _Now._  
  
 _Now, is it? Not 'later, in private?'_  
  
 _How could I refuse?_  
  
Fingolfin cast him an goaded glance and Fëanor silently laughed, said, aloud, “Come, wash my back.” And with one of his whip-crack decisions. “Maglor, come.”  
  
Maglor drew his hair aside, while Fingolfin scrubbed his back with more force than was warranted. Fëanor smiled beneath the wet curtain of hair, feeling his son's hands massaging his scalp. Their proximity and touches filled his mind with delectable images. They were roused by him, and he by them, by the spice of sin in the desire, while the concept of it did not trouble him, it did add a thrill.  
  
“Long ago, at the great feast thou didst hold, brother,” he said quietly. “Thou didst meet Daeron of Doriath?”  
  
“Yes.” Fingolfin paused. “Maglor played with him. It was exquisite.”  
  
“He was wondrous,” said Maglor with unstinting admiration. Then, “Why dost thou mention him, father?”  
  
“I have seen him.”  
  
“Here?” Maglor's hands stopped and Fëanor straightened, pushing back his hair.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I thought he vanished.”  
  
“Thou wert presumed to have vanished.”  
  
“I did,” Maglor murmured. “Did he?”  
  
“It seems he came here. He wanted me to assure him that we would not settle to the north-west.”  
  
“Nothing else?” Fingolfin asked.  
  
“He knows that the sons of Dior are alive. He probably knows exactly where they are – or if not, has seen them over the years.”  
  
Maglor looked down, his water-sleeked hair seemed hung with memories. “He would not come into the camp,” he stated.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Will he come back, dost thou think?”  
  
Fëanor considered it. “I do not think so. He may observe us.” And he smiled and Fingolfin saw the smile and his face glazed into coldness.  
  
“I would have liked to have seen him again,” Maglor said. “His voice was of all the waters of the Earth...And he must have been so alone.”  
  
Had he been, Fëanor wondered? He tipped up his son's head. “I have left an open invitation for him to come here if he wishes.”  
  
 _I wager thou didst._ Fingolfin said dryly, silently.  
  
Fëanor looked at him under lashes heavy with water. “Wash me,” he tilted back his head, and heard a sharp splash of annoyance, before the rub of cloth began on his chest, and Maglor's fingers went back to his hair.  
  
They would look beautiful together, these two, his son, his half-brother, wrestling, writhing like two black-maned lions, and then he would join them, tasting their hot flesh, their lips, burying himself in them, feeling them tight around him. He groaned as Fingolfin's hands ran across a nipple, and he opened his eyes, looking straight into those star-blue ones. The fingers paused, pinched slightly, admonishing or teasing, and moved on.  
  
 _I will have thee, my beautiful brother,_ he breathed across Fingolfin's hot, roused mind. And he laughed.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Wilt thou come to bathe?” Fanari asked.  
  
Rosriel was sitting upon large cushions, a book open in her hands. Her face, when she lifted it was guarded.  
  
“It is not yet dark.”  
  
She would not go down to the small cove beyond the tents of Penlod's House before nightfall.  
  
“The sunset is beautiful. We could walk, and wait.”  
  
Fanari spoke with careful formality and through mentally gritted teeth. She only had to look at Rosriel to remember the pain she had caused in Lindon. Perhaps that was what Rosriel was truly like, yet Fanari had spoken to the Mother. Rosriel had to be given a chance – and she had to be watched. Penlod had been against it from the beginning and avoided her, but Edlothiel had said, “And who else will take her in?”  
  
“I know her, father,” Fanari had said.  
  
“She hated thee and thy son !”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The Mother had asked her. She told only Edlothiel that, for she felt that what had passed between herself and the goddess was not for sharing.  
  
 _Thinks't thou I know not hate?_ the Mother asked, and Fanari had felt a force greater than the anger of the sea or the ice-blizzards of winter, something terrifying in its passion. _Hast thou not hated Maglor, in Vinyamar and Gondolin, as a woman hates a man who does not desire her? Only compassion for his madness truly saved thee, Fanari. And love for a child. Rosriel may hate, or love, but she will be free to do both, as thou wert._  
  
In Lindon, Fanari had waged silent war against Rosriel and her court, but underneath the forged dignity, violent thoughts had seethed. Now, each time she saw Rosriel she wanted to physically attack her; she carried too many memories of the woman's viciousness to easily forgive. It was one of the hardest tasks she had ever undertaken, this lending of herself to be virtually a maidservant. Her own women feared for her, and Penlod appointed guards outside her tent.  
  
This matter of bathing was just one of the thorns that prickled between them. In Lindon, Rosriel had exhibited a prudishness which among Elves was as rare as Círdan's beard. Since the confrontation and unmasking of Varda, Rosriel had desired that a tub be brought into her tent so that she could wash. Fanari tried to persuade her that going down to the shore in the darkness would not compromise her modesty. The old Rosriel would have snapped about promiscuity. This one simply refused without explanation.  
  
“They hate me,” Rosriel said now, closing the book.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Most of them.”  
  
“Many of them hate Fëanor too, but I do not see him hiding in his tent,” Fanari remarked. “There are things to do. Wouldst thou not like to choose a site for thy house? Explore the land a little? It is a glorious place.”  
  
“The Mother asked thee to watch me, did she not?” Rosriel's delicate brows rose. “She told me, there is no need to prevaricate. Mayhap she has a sense of humor...” She plucked at the skirt of her gown. “I asked her if she did not hate men that loved other men...”  
  
“What did she say?”  
  
Rosriel's mouth curved ironically. “She said she had enough who worshiped at her shrine to forgive those who did not.”  
  
“I asked her too,” Fanari said. “I am sure the Goddess does have a sense of humor, but it is not that alone: both of us were, in a sense, rejected by a man.”  
  
“I was never in love with Fingon,” Rosriel said dismissively. “And I am not saying that through wounded pride, though it was wounded.”  
  
“Why not?” Fanari looked surprised.  
  
“Perhaps, left to myself, I could have loved him. But my father wanted to sew discord between the House of Fëanor and Fingolfin long before I was born, and decided I would serve his purpose. And what good would it have been if I had loved Fingon? Do not tell me thou wouldst have smiled and blessed he and Maedhros and lain alone in thy bed knowing they were lovers.”  
  
Fanari smiled, brief and hard. “No, I could not have, I would have been driven mad. Fingon loved Maedhros from a child. No-one could have come between them. I think thy father knew that, and it was an unconscionable act for him to put thee forward for marriage. It is why I was – and am – willing to try and understand thee. I am glad, now, that no-one chose to arrange a marriage for me, yes, even between Maglor and I. Of course, I did weave fantasies for a long time.”  
  
“My fantasies were more violent. They frightened me...It alarmed me that I...enjoyed them.”  
  
“I heard some of them.”  
  
“Blessed Eru, I hope they were not me in truth.” Rosriel put a hand to her mouth and blinked. “I could not really have wanted to see them die in such ignominious agony...could I? My son too? And thine...?”  
  
“I do not think any mother could. And if thou art disturbed by them now, were they truly thine own fantasies?”  
All Elven mothers loved their children. In Lindon, many had married because to remain unmarried was to put them under suspicion of harboring unnatural desires. They had not been love-matches, yet the children of those unions were loved.  
  
“And yet what could I have done?” Rosriel demanded. “Blessed his love for thy son, knowing he would be punished for it?”  
  
“But thou didst not know it, not until Glorfindel returned and confirmed it was true.”  
  
“No. I _knew._ ”  
  
“Because Elbereth put it in thy mind. There was no other way thou _couldst_ have known. I would like to believe that some of thy hate was birthed of fear for thy son, not hate.” Rosriel answered nothing and Fanari shook her head, ran a hand down the drying sheets draped over her arm. “Come out, others are relaxing after the day. It will help thee.”  
  
Rosriel came sharply to her feet.  
“I do not know whether I was mad then or am mad now,” she whispered and reached for a cloak, drawing the hood over her head.  
  
The sky bled night into the water, but the argent moon was blooming, surmounting the last light of sunset. Time was poised between day and night for a long moment.  
  
The cove was indeed deserted; a little inlet where the green land rolled lazily into the sea, and a stream danced down mossy rocks. Rosriel kicked off her soft shoes, and lifted her skirt to let the water lap against her feet, but made no move to discard her clothes.  
  
“What a moon.” Fanari folded her gown and laid it upon a rock, then waded out, swimming to the mouth of the inlet. She stopped there, treading water.  
  
It looked tempting. Rosriel felt as if her clothes irked her and her skin was too tight. She had confined herself too long. With a mental flash of defiance at Elbereth, she set her cloak aside and unlaced her gown. She remembered that she did not like nakedness, then wondered if she had ever been given a choice in the matter and wanted to scream imprecations at the Valie she had served all her days. Clenching her jaw, she stepped into the cool water, feeling it rise over her knees and to her stomach. Her breasts were bare, and she resisted the temptation to go deeper or to cover them as she began to wash. Fanari swam over to her, then stood, the moon spangling her.  
  
“Lean forward,” she said. “And I will wash thy hair.”  
  
“Thou wouldst prefer to drown me, I doubt not.”  
  
It would serve no purpose to lie. The Mother had said Rosriel would remember the past.  
“Thou canst have no idea how much. However, I will try to see thee as Rosriel and not as Elbereth, and also endeavor _not_ to drown thee. There are certain people who would not thank me for it.”  
  
“Name one,” Rosriel challenged.  
  
“Thy son, for one. Whatever thou dost think, I saw him at times. He wanted thy love.”  
  
The moon breathed silence down over them. Something huge and ravenous yawned in Rosriel's soul, rose up as if it were some creature from the bottom of the sea. It swallowed her whole. She heard her voice come out of its belly, muffled and slurring as if she were a sot.  
  
“How...could...my...son...care for me? I do not...even...know if...I...love him!”  
  
She threw herself forward, swimming until she felt the depths suck beneath her. With a wild laugh, ignoring Fanari's cries, she struck downward into the dark. And it was very dark. It promised silence, a severance from the memories that came on her like wolves. She saw herself in her chambers in Lindon, after the news came of Gil-galad's death, screaming, _“The besotted arse loving...! He will be lost in the Void like his unholy father!”_  
  
She opened her mouth to scream out the hatred and horror she felt at herself, at Varda, and water seared her lungs like a thousand fire-tipped daggers.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Consciousness roared back as she found herself gagging for air, vomiting, coughing water. She was vaguely aware of voices, but could not hear their words through the paroxysms. Tears felt hot on her cheeks, but there was something warm about her, and arms held her over a basin. After a time she began to breath again, through a raw throat, into a chest which felt tight and sore. The rim of a cup was set against her lips and she smelled honey, cinnamon, ginger, as she swallowed the hot wine. The arms around her shifted to lay her back. The pillow smelled of lavender, the coverlet over her naked body was soft.  
  
The voices cleared as she listened to them. Fanari's, her son's, Edlothiel's from a little distance away. She opened her eyes and looked into ones which reflected the lamp-light like twin stars.  
  
“Leave me,” she turned her head away.  
  
“He pulled thee out.” Fanari's voice came closer.  
  
“Only half the way,” Gil-galad corrected.  
  
Rosriel gave a choking, humorless laugh. “Why didst thou not let me die?”  
  
“My mother was shouting, I heard her. I was coming here with Gil.” Tindómion spoke flatly. “She was already bringing thee ashore. Gil took thee from her.”  
  
“How dare any of you put me under that kind of obligation!”  
  
“I would have done the same for any-one.” Gil-galad rose and Rosriel saw the rage like sunlight on Tindómion's face.  
  
“How many of us have been mad?” Fanari demanded of her, as her son and Gil-galad walked from the tent. “Thy son would indeed have done the same for any-one, but after all the hate thou didst pour on him, I am surprised he did it for _thee!_ ”  
  
“Go!” Rosriel beat out a hand weakly.  
  
“If I did not think Elbereth wanted thee dead rather than free, I would have let thee drown.”  
  
“Thou hadst no right to bring me back to this life!” Pushing herself up, Rosriel began to cough again.  
  
“Drink the wine.” Fanari sounded enraged. Her hair was wet and drops of water still clung to her breasts and face.  
  
“Why didst thou have to help me?” Rosriel drank and gasped, the wine trailing hot into her stomach.  
  
“I could have been as thee, but for chance. Elbereth touched us both, touched all we women. We could have been friends, in Lindon, we had nothing truly, but our sons.”  
  
Rosriel's mouth open and shut.  
“I hated thee...and thy son...and mine...” she said. “I wanted him to d-die.”  
  
There was something in the wine, masked by the honey and spices. Valerian perhaps? Rosriel felt herself sinking back into welcoming darkness. And dreams waited for her.  
  
Whoever sent them, the Mother or Estë the gentle, they were a woman's dreams.  
  
~~~  
  
Fanari sat seething, thinking that this was surely a jest. She had wished Rosriel dead or gone so many times and yet refused to let her die. She threw her drying-sheet on the floor and kicked it aside. Edlothiel came in silently and began to comb the wet mass of her daughter's hair.  
  
“Thou couldst not have let her drown, in truth,” she murmured.  
  
They looked at the sleeping woman. Tears still marked her face. She looked smaller and vulnerable, not the woman whom had bestrode the court of Lindon with diamonds in her hair. Or had that been Elbereth wearing an earthly representation of the stars? Difficult sympathy twisted a knot within Fanari's breast. And it _was_ difficult. She looked away.  
  
“Gil would love her, if she let him. It would be good for both of them.” Then, “What wasted lives we both lived.”  
  
“Thy father and I wished thee to marry.”  
  
“I know. Foolish to love a dream. But perhaps...easier.”  
  
“But thou dost not regret thy son.” There was a smile in Edlothiel's voice. “Neither would I have.”  
  
“No, but after that.” Fanari beat her hands on her knees. “Wasted! There was no desire in me. There had not been for a long time before Arvernien was sacked. And is it not strange? While I knew my son loved Gil-galad and supported it, and called the laws wrong, I did not think to question why _I_ had become as a fading rose.”  
  
“That is changed now.”  
  
“I know it.” Fanari smiled, and they laughed softly.  
  
“So thou wouldst not have Maglor now, even did he desire women?” her mother whispered.  
  
“ Eru forfend! I would not choose a Finwion, mother. Easy to desire, and hard to love, I think. Except for another Finwion.” But she was still laughing. The high emotion of the night rode her, and for the first time she actually found the thought amusing. She buried her face in Edlothiel's hair to stifle her mirth, but later, she regarded the sleeping Rosriel, a woman whom had not been allowed to be a woman, not even, because of the damned laws, able to seek pleasure and comfort with another. Would she be able to laugh, one day?  
  
~~~  
  
“Gil !”  
  
Gil-galad stopped as Tindómion caught his arm. In the dark space between the camps his face was lit by the moon. It was blank, but Tindómion knew what it concealed.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I am sorry.”  
  
“For what? ”  
  
What could he say? That Gil-galad's mother had pushed him away, and not embraced him? What had he expected?  
  
“As I said, I would have done the same for any-one.”  
  
“Do not shut the door in my face!”  
  
“Dost think I am hurt, then? I am accustomed to it.”  
  
“I want her to love thee !” Tindómion exploded. “I had no father, but under the hate, I _wanted_ him to love me ! Fingon was dead, and whom didst thou have but thy mother?”  
  
“Thou wert given to me.” Warmth blushed softly through Gil-galad's face and voice.  
  
“I was no good for thee.”  
  
“No, as a great mill-stone about my neck thou wert.” But there was amusement in the words. “Fool. Were it not for thee, _Nárya..._ ”  
  
“Of course, there would have been no-one else.” Tindómion's smile was sardonic.  
  
“I call thee _Nárya_ for a _reason!_ ” Gil-galad struck him with a kiss. “Oh, thou _fool!_ ”  
  
“Gil...”  
  
“Gil?”  
  
The call came out of the darkness. Tindómion said with ragged savagery, “Thou doth keep thy hound on a short leash, these days.”  
  
“I would keep my warhound on a shorter one,” Gil-galad whispered. “Yes, I think thou wouldst look very... _good_ in a jeweled collar.” He thrust one hand into thick bronze hair and ran the other lightly down to the hardness that burgeoned at Tindómion's groin. “Here, Faelfaer,” he called before their lips met again, punishing one another with lust.  
  
“All thou needs't do is come to me, _Nárya,_ ” he murmured, then turned and walked away.  
  
Tindómion swore and stood in the night thinking of jeweled collars. He closed his ears to the concerned greeting from Vórimóro and Gil-galad's response, and strode off before he could inadvertently hear anything he dared not.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
 _We are on the edge of a storm,_ Finrod remarked calmly as the ship pitched and the winds tore at the rigging. Most of the sail was down, but the ship still ran like a cat across the slate-grey sea. _But the mariners know their craft._ He shut the door to his cabin. _They think to be out of it by dawn. How is Legolas? And all the others?_  
  
 _Very occupied,_ Glorfindel replied. _Which is a good thing. Thou didst tarry._  
  
 _I wished to see our sister._  
  
 _I understand. Well, I will endeavor to see no harm comes to thy dear cousin in the meantime._  
  
 _Thou art reveling in obscurity. Why should any harm come to him? At least before I get there._  
  
 _It may not, which is why I would rather say nothing until thou art here._  
  
Finrod's eyes were aflame in the dimness. _I will be there. I want nothing to happen to him – yet._  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
They were like wolves on a leash in the seasons that followed. The long summer was chased into autumn by storms that whipped the inland sea into fury and scattered the last leaves; then the first frosts came and lay in the shadows until nightfall and the sun sank like a burning coal in an ember hearth of sky.  
  
Autumn was always a busy time for them, and the twins seemed content to attend to their tasks before the cold came down. Each day they worked hard and each night they came to his room as if they needed to reassure themselves he was there, or punish him for his threat to leave. Perhaps both. They did not mention Celegorm again, which in itself concerned Daeron, and he knew that they closed him out of their mental conversations, looking at one another with eyes as impenetrable as polished lapis. Alertness to their movements stretched him on a rack of nerves. Only when they slept twined about him in exhausted satiation did he himself relax. During the short days they mended, cooked, sometimes hunted, dressed in white that made them almost invisible against the snow.  
  
They grew more restless as winter deepened. The Solstice was approaching, the longest night. Many times they had celebrated this with the Avari, but this year they had remained in Dor Galen. And that too, troubled Daeron.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
It woke.  
  
It had been aware for some time of a tapping on the borders of its agelong sleep, as a man might slowly become aware of a secretive scratch upon a door in the silence of the night.  
  
So long it had slept, consciousness a tiny fire at its core, that it resented the scrape of another mind upon it. Slowly it gathered itself to awareness, to darkness.  
  
It remembered glory, it remembered the fall of cities, blood and death, the baneful, beautiful fire of existance. It remembered lands shattering, the sea rising. It remembered coming here, coiling in upon itself, a withdrawal, suspended in nothingness.  
  
The mind that had woken it tiptoed about it. It whispered many things...  
  
In the lightless black at the root of the mountain, red light blossomed like an unfurling fire-rose.  
  
In his pavilion, Glorfindel sat up. His eyes blazed like the rising sun. ~  
  
  
  
~~~

~~~


	42. ~ To the Fires of the Years End ~

  
Autumn sun spilled onto Dale.   
  
Vanimórë had come to the town with Edric and his brothers. Perhaps it was an unwise decision; he had been recognized as the orc-hunter who came here after the War of the Ring. Such whispers might reach the Elves – more specifically their king, and whatever Thranduil might have learned of Vanimórë, he had killed a Silvan Elf, a subject of the woodland realm. That was something no king could ignore.   
  
Edric had not known the identity of his guard and when he learned was doubly pleased to offer lodgings to both Elves. His was a comfortable house, and while Dale had suffered during the war, the citizens had been rebuilding with the help of the Dwarves of Erebor. Edric's home had perhaps lodged a captain and his men, for he said that it had been relatively untouched.  
  
Vanimórë and Elgalad were shown to a room furnished by colorful wool rugs, a settle, low table and two beds. In a curtained alcove was a small gardrobe, and a large copper bath hung on the wall nearby. Later they joined Edric at a family meal, and thereafter their host entertained most evenings, telling of his journey into distant Harad. He had proved the doubters wrong; they had been of the opinion that he would never be seen again, robbed and killed by the Southrons. Now he was returned, and was already making plans to travel again. His friends could only murmur to one another that the Elven hunters had doubtless protected him, and that Edric was luckier than he knew.   
  
They stayed in Dale as autumn blushed color into the leaves. Sometimes they hunted as far north as the Ered Mithrim, for something nagged at Vanimórë's mind. The Men and Dwarves had reported no sign of orcs and according to the people of Lake Town, Eryn Lasgalen was also clean of them. Vanimórë knew he would sense them. He also knew that his vengeful hunting he certainly had not killed all of them. He guessed they had scattered, perhaps holed up in Gudabad or Mount Gram, or returned to Mordor by way of the east. They could live well enough around Nurnen.   
  
Why did he not concern himself more he wondered, half-idly, though later he was to know why his mind was nudged away. It ran so contrary to his nature that he should have suspected, but now he believed it was simple: In this early time of freedom, he wanted to relax, to revel in it because he truly could not believe it. He had trained his mind to take him away from pain and despair, and often he would thrill with a sudden fear, thinking to find himself in his rat-hole cell in Angband, his chamber in Barad-dûr. Elgalad seemed to sense when these moments came upon him and would touch him with wordless empathy, bringing him into the truth of this impossible, incredible reality.   
  
Vanimórë's need for Elgalad could likewise shock him. It was so much more than desire, even love, a complex hunger and thirst. He wanted Elgalad with a constant ache, and saw the same need in mirrored in the dew-clear eyes.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The wind was mild, tugging the willow leaves from their branches and whirling them into the river. Vanimórë sat against the thickly ridged bark, Elgalad beside him, watching the water curve sleekly around the outcrop of rock. The dimpling pool behind it glinted moss-green and calm, but autumn rains turned the main flow into an ale-brown froth as the hill streams shed their peaty waters into the Celduin. The river ran south through the sheltered fertility of Dorwinion and finally debouched itself into the vast inland Sea of Rhun, exotic cities studding its shores like rough-cut gems. Vanimórë followed it with his mind, past the steppes of the Balchoth, the temples and gardens of Cathaia, to the many-shaded waters of Gaear Gwathluin. He withdrew quietly as a gentle wave, his mind drifting like the leaves which pattered onto the water. Peace.  
Was this peace?  
He looked aside at Elgalad who was sleeping, the murmur of the willow like the song of a mother over her child's cradle. Smiling, Vanimórë silently rose and walked to the edge of the river, shed his clothes and stepped into the clean chill. The pool seemed to mirror his life, eddying into limpid calm after ages of tumult. _Or is it the false calm that comes before a great storm?_ There was some part of him, he knew, that would ever stand like a warrior, waiting for attack.   
He sank down, let the water lap him, ease into his hair to its roots.  
  
He opened his eyes as he felt the slim hands on his scalp, and smiled. Elgalad knelt on the boulder his shirt laid on one side.   
Bathing together was difficult for both of them and constrained in Edric's house. There were whispers that they were lovers and Edric had weighed his reputation against the profit of having the Elves in his employ. In the end, profit tipped his scales, and he had offered the Elves lodging with him and work for the next two years at the least. In a place where, if men took other men as lovers, they kept main quiet about it, their presence initially caused Edric some discomfort; the Elves had never hidden their affection toward one another. He was relieved that in his house they circumspect.   
Thus Vanimórë and Elgalad suffered the demands of their bodies and became adept at washing, dressing and undressing quickly while the other turned his back. If they were out trapping, it was harder. And now they were alone, one naked, the other half-way there.  
  
Vanimórë said, almost roughly, “Let me wash thy hair,” and lifted his hands to the great braid. Silver silk drifted against his stomach, caressing him like whispered breaths of love. He heard the soft moan of need and anguish, and Elgalad lifted his head, pushing his hair aside. His eyes, clearer than the water that dewed his lashes, showed Vanimórë...himself, as Elgalad saw him.   
  
Cupping the sweet face gently, he said, “How canst thou see me thus?”   
  
The smile was wise and very tender. “I see th-thee as thou art, my d-dear lord.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Elgalad slid down on the stone and into the water, his longs legs curving about Vanimórë's waist, holding himself there as his hands delved into liquid blackness, combing it back.   
  
“I see th-thee _as thou art._ ” His lips were warm against water-cooled skin, under the ear, down the throat to its hollow. Then, very slowly, he leaned back, fingers trailing down Vanimórë's chest and stomach until they drew away and he stretched out his arms graceful as a dancer to lie on the water. When he was a child he had held himself so, laughing as Vanimórë whirled him about. The muscles of his stomach and chest quivered, lapped by tiny ripples. He looked made out of light and water and, for a moment, seemed to become that: light, water, love, part of the land, a memory...   
  
And, very suddenly, he jerked up. His arms locked around Vanimórë's back. He dropped his legs and pressed close, cheek against cheek.   
  
“He owes me a death, Elgalad,” came the voice of Thranduil, as he dropped, light as snowfall from the tree.   
  
“Meluion...”  
  
“No, my L-Lord !”   
  
“Step back from him, Elgalad,” the king said with long-tempered authority.   
  
“I will n-not, Sire.”   
  
Thranduil stepped to the edge of the pool. The arrow had been trained upon Vanimórë's head until Elgalad had placed his own in the line of fire.   
  
“The son of Sauron, made a Power. Glorfindel has told me of you.”  
  
“Good things, I hope.”  
  
“Is this what an Elf's death means to you?” Thranduil demanded, a figure of fair and deadly anger. “A jest?”   
  
“Vengeance, King Thranduil.”  
  
There was a likeness to Legolas in the king's face. Vanimórë remembered him from the Dagorlad, taking command after his father's death.   
  
“You killed one of my people, Gorthaurion.”  
  
“He s-saved Legolas' life, Sire!” Elgalad turned his head.   
  
There was a long silence. The autumn wind tossed leaves between them.   
  
“Glorfindel said he killed _you._ ”  
  
“It w-was an accident.”  
  
Vanimórë tightened his clasp with a spasm of memory, his eyes fixed on the king's blue ones. There was a hardness to his countenance that spoke of years of struggle against the encroachment of the dark into his realm, grief for those lost, but it was not the face of one intending to kill.   
  
“Or perhaps...meant?” Thranduil eased the tension on his bow and reached a hand toward Elgalad. “Come. You are as another son to me. This one owes me a death, but you are right; I also owe him a life.” Elgalad gripped his hand. Thranduil drew him out, and into a tight embrace. Vanimórë raised his brows a little and waded out, scattering water as he shook his hair. He lifted the wineskin that lay among the willow-roots and unstoppered it.  
  
“My lord king.” He proferred it not to Thranduil, whom he knew would not take wine from his hands, but to Elgalad. “Red Harvest.”   
  
Elgalad inclined his head. “Sire?”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Malthador's heart was darkened long ago.” Thranduil said, a little while later, his bow at his feet, one arm about Elgalad. “But you know the losses my people suffered on Dagorlad. You must know that in my kingdom there is no death-sentence. Kinslaughter is not abhorrent only to the _Golodhrim._ ” His eyes rested unblinkingly on Vanimórë's.   
  
“I was not raised as a _Golodh,_ King Thranduil. Nor as an Elf of any kindred.”  
  
“Nevertheless. You did not simply duel with Malthador. I saw the wounds. You toyed with him and then destroyed him.”   
  
Elgalad looked down, his brows drawn.   
  
“Legolas wanted him exiled. And I was in agreement,” the king said after a moment. “He tried to kill Elgalad in Imladris and in fact, before that, when he placed him beyond my halls knowing that colonies of spiders were moving. But...”   
  
“Thou didst plead for clemency,” Vanimórë murmured, and Elgalad's eyes rose. “He hurt thee and shamed thee and sent thee running into the wilds of Eriador, and then he left thee to drown. And still thou didst ask that his judgment be commuted. I will never be able to feel such mercy.”  
  
“I wish I did see regret in you,” Thranduil said. “You are dangerous.”   
  
“And that is why Elgalad is mine.”   
  
Silence fell between them. Vanimórë looked across the tumbling waters, heard Thranduil say, “Better for him to have gone to this New Cuiviénen, or stayed with me.”   
  
“I know it.”  
  
“Sire.” Elgalad's voice came softly. “Th-thou knowest I will n-not. Though I love thee, and L-Legolas. I am meant to b-be with Vanimórë as thy son is m-meant to be with Glorfindel.”   
  
Thranduil's smile was tight and wonderfully affectionate.  
“You were always very like him.” He looked at Vanimórë, but found the vivid face impossible to read. “I feel that I have lost two sons, although I know Legolas is happy and I cannot but feel relief at the overthrow of the Powers. I feared for him.”   
  
Elgalad said gently: “I know, sire. I t-told thee that I could not believe th-that _love_ could ever b-be punished.”   
  
“And I had to make myself believe it.”   
  
Vanimórë uttered a short, unamused laugh. “Meluion had it aright.” He stared at the water. “Thou hast never traveled to Imladris,” he said suddenly.   
  
“Surely you know the answer,” Thranduil countered, wondering where this was going.   
  
“It would be so dull, to look into the mind of every person I met. And I know how it is for one's mind to be naked and defenseless.” He turned his head then. “I know thou hast not ever been to Imladris because Elgalad told me.”   
  
“No, I have not, nor do I anticipate it.”   
  
“I wager thou wilt go there, within the next few seasons.”   
  
“As I said, Gorthaurion, I do not anticipate it.” Thranduil was trying to read what was behind the man's face. There was the hint of a smile on his mouth, amusement in his eyes. It was, superficially, a face one could speak to, but under it was something hard as a locked door. Yet when he washed Elgalad's hair, when they had been together in the pool, that door had been thrown wide. In truth Thranduil had not come to kill him, but he had wanted to see remorse for Malthador's death. There was none in evidence.   
He had heard somewhat from Glorfindel of this son of Sauron, enough to envisage what his life must have been like. He had never liked Glorfindel, nor any of the _Golodhrim,_ arrogant as if they ruled Arda and cursed with what the men of Lake Town called a 'death-wish'. Thranduil had little time for any of the Powers of the West, save Tauron, the great hunter, whom the Silvan Elves remembered in their wild solstice celebrations, but the _Golodhrim_ had gone further and brought down the wrath of the mightiest, and a doom which had encompassed all who came in contact with them. Through Legolas however, Thranduil had come to regard Glorfindel with distant respect. What else was there? He either alienated his son or supported him.   
  
When whispers had come along the river that the deadly Elven orc-hunter had returned to the north, Thranduil had taken a few of his warriors and left the forest, determined to see him – and Elgalad. He had been concerned. Now he was doubly so, and not a little baffled.   
_This son of Sauron is holding back,_   
Vanimórë and Elgalad were not lovers. Thranduil would wager on that. Strangely, it was not a relief. Elgalad had been in love with his erstwhile guardian all his life, and now fate had given them to one another, they were not lovers. But they did love.   
  
“We intend to journey to Imladris at some time,” Vanimórë continued. “I am bound to act as a guard to the Man Edric, but I wish to return Elgalad to the north when our duties are done, as now.”   
  
And Elgalad had not returned to the Greenwood. Of course not. While it saddened Thranduil, he could see how impossible was the situation.   
  
“Where will you go?” he asked.   
  
“Eventually? Into the south.”  
  
“The lands of men are no place for an Elf.”  
  
“I am used to them.” The wide shoulders shrugged. “And I will let nothing and no-one harm Elgalad.” A brief flicker of irony tightened Vanimórë's mouth. “There is no place for me among the Elves.”   
  
_True enough,_ Thranduil thought. This man only knew how to command. He would not know how to be a subject, no matter that he had always taken orders from the Dark Lord. The shackles were off – save for those that he forged for himself. The king looked into Elgalad's face and said gently, “And this is what you wish?”   
  
“This is wh-what I wise, Sire.”   
  
“Could you not dwell in this new Cuiviénen? At least there are other Elves there.”   
  
“I w-would dwell there if Vanimórë d-did,” Elgalad responded.   
  
“And that is most definitely not my place,” Vanimórë said with finality. “It would be interesting, but just...too many egos.” And he laughed. It transformed his face. Thranduil slid a hand over his mouth to hide an unanticipated smile. Elgalad was smiling openly. it delighted him, the king realized, to see Vanimórë laugh.   
  
“I have one too. Do not be fooled by my self-effacing facade.”   
  
“I was. Entirely,” Thranduil said dryly. “But could not Elgalad stay there?”   
  
“We have discussed this.” Vanimórë's mouth hardened again.   
  
“I will n-not.”   
  
“Anyhow, there will be things happening in the north in the next years which we would both like to witness.”   
  
“I learned that Aredhel, daughter of Fingolfin, remained at Imladris.”   
  
“Thou art very quick,” Vanimórë said with provocative approval. “Yes, no doubt thou wilt see her when thou dost go there.”   
  
“And why would I go there?” Thranduil asked with strained patience.   
  
“I can think of only two reasons: war or love.”   
  
War, or love...There was no mockery in the purple eyes.   
  
“For those reasons,” Thranduil agreed. “I might indeed go to Imladris.”   
  
“For love thou wouldst would walk into the mouth of the Hells,” Vanimórë said. “Thou art a man of great courage, and great love, like all those of thy blood.”   
  
Thranduil turned to Elgalad. “I hope we meet soon, my dear.” He touched the smooth cheek. “You truly thought I would shoot the man you loved?” he asked curiously.   
  
“Sire, I have b-been thy subject for a long t-time. Thou d-didst have the r-right.”   
  
“I do not have the right to break your heart.” Thranduil drew him close and whispered: “Keep safe.” Then he looked at Vanimórë. Even naked and unarmed there was an intense power in him.   
  
“ _Could_ I have killed you?”  
  
“I am flesh and blood, Thranduil. That arrow would have made a terrible mess of my head. Yes, my body can be slain. For a time. My houseless mind would be able to reconstruct it. I cannot say it is something I would want to experience, however.”   
  
“I wondered. But as king I would have shot you, whatever the outcome, had it not been for the fact you saved my son, and one I regard as my foster-son loves you.” Thranduil turned away. “Until next we meet.” He inclined his head and melted like sunlight into the blowing leaves.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The brilliant northern autumn faded toward winter, and the first meager snows drifted languidly out of an ashen sky as they walked back into Dale. Lights showed at many windows. Taverns disgorged the scent of hot ale, food and the sounds of companionship. The cobbles were already sifted with white. People were hurrying home, cloaks drawn about them.   
Edric's house welcomed them with a fire in their room and a jug of hot wine on the hearthstones. They hung up their cloaks, laved their hands and faces and poured wine.   
  
_Vanimórë._   
  
_Yes?_ He put down the cup.  
  
 _I feel something..._  
  
 _Fortunate man._ Vanimórë felt the flick of brief amusement. _What?_  
  
Glorfindel told him, his tone now gone grim as cold iron. _I thought...no rather, I assumed, that there were none in existance now._  
  
 _I must admit, I did not think to seek for any._   
  
Elgalad was watching him, and he reached out, laid a hand on his wrist.  
  
 _Many died in Gondolin,_ Glorfindel said. _Thou knowest not how many served Morgoth? Didst thou know any, in Angband?_  
  
 _Know any...? Why yes, Glorfindel, of course, we used to sit around and drink wine, play knucklebones... **Know any?!**_  
  
 _Very funny._ The amusement returned briefly. _They are before my history, and thine, but what did Morgoth promise them to ensure their loyalty?_   
  
_Who knows what he promised any of those who followed him? He used the Balrogs as his bodyguards and executioners. I trained under them. I rejoiced when I learned that many were slain by the Gondolindrim. Thou and I think with human minds, Glorfindel, not Ainu minds. What do they want? I know not._   
  
_This one must have rested, like Durin's Bane, since the War of Wrath. Strange that it should stir now._   
  
_Strange indeed,_ Vanimórë's dry tone echoed Glorfindel's. _I wonder which one woke it?_   
  
_It does not matter. It will not be awake long enough to bring fire down on my people...Thou didst not see Gondolin fall._   
  
_I heard of it. I know what a Balrog can do. Even with power, be careful._ Glorfindel's laugh was hard. _Careful._ _Just kill it quickly._   
  
_I intend to._   
  
  
Glorfindel rose and the tent glowed gold. Legolas stared at him as he flung back the flaps and stood glorious and naked, looking east toward the mountains. His face was like the sunrise. A shiver seemed to ripple through the whole encampment.   
  
“ _Valarauka._ ” His whisper carried. “Wert thou there, at Gondolin?”   
  
_Glorfindel!_ It was Fëanor's voice, snapping into his mind like a Balrog's whip of flame.   
  
“There is a Balrog in the mountains.” He knew his announcement would carry to the whole camp. “Something has awoken it.”   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Whom – or what – woke it?” Fëanor too, stared east. “Manwë, I will wager.”  
  
“Glorfindel?” Legolas asked quietly. “What will you do?”  
  
Ecthelion, standing on the edge of the group, arms folded, answered for him. “He will slay it.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I will come with thee,” his friend stated.   
  
“As will I,” Fëanor said.   
  
Legolas nodded emphatically.   
  
“I can deal with it alone,” Glorfindel told them, flexing his fingers as if about the hilt of his sword.   
  
“I believe thee.” Fëanor's voice was strangely gentle. “It is not that, is it, Ecthelion, Legolas? We desire to _witness._ ”   
  
Glorfindel's eyes swept over them. He understood. Fëanor and Ecthelion had died fighting Balrogs, Legolas loved him, and wished to see him triumph over one of the very creatures that had caused his death. A greater crowd were gathering now. Among them he saw faces of Gondolindrim refugees who had watched him die, warriors of his own house. Their eyes held absolute trust – and memories.   
  
He examined a mental map, followed likely routes only to discard them. He reached out and felt the fire-pulse of the Balrog deep in the mountains roots. Even so powerful a being would take some time to find a way out of the labyrinth. There was no Khazad-dûm there, just natural tunnels and grots that the Balrog had vanished into long ago.   
  
“It will take some time,” he said. “I think it will be drawn to us, to memories of battle and slaughter, prodded by the one whom awoke it.” He turned. “Let us... _welcome_ it back to Middle-earth.”   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The twins were going hunting. The fact that they had told Daeron and not asked him or assumed he would accompany them, was always a signal that they wished to go alone. At times they did, and he did not question it. Before the solstice, herds of deer came down out of the Palisor Plains to the greater shelter afforded by the woods and hills of Dor Galen, and the salt-pans left behind after Helcar's destruction. It was a good time to hunt.   
  
Elurín stepped out of the door. Eluréd paused, looking back at Daeron.  
  
“We will be back before the solstice,” he offered.   
  
“Thou art always back for the Solstice.” Daeron set down the pail of ashes which he would take out to make soap. Eluréd stepped up to him.   
  
“Thou wilt be here?”  
  
“Wilt thou?”  
  
Eluréd dipped a finger in the ash and drew a mark on Daeron's brow; an ancient rune of Doriath.  
“Of course,” he whispered. His pupils were dilated, making his eyes black and enormous. The solstice, its wildness and what they did to Daeron – what he permitted them to do – roused him.   
  
“Very well.” Daeron kissed his cheek, chaste and brief, and turned away.   
  
At midday he left the house. He wanted to ensure their hatred did not lead them south – to the Noldor.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
There were six of them. Glorfindel, Fëanor, Ecthelion whom had slain Gothmog, Fingon, whom Gothmog had slain, and Legolas, with his memories of Moria and Mithrandir.  
Fingolfin met with his half-brother before they departed. Fëanor smiled quizzically, as he looked into the star-blue eyes.  
  
“I will come back.”  
  
“Thou hadst _all_ better come back,” Fingolfin said hardly, for his son was going, whose death he had seen in the prison of the Everlasting Dark.   
  
“We will.” Fëanor leaned forward and kissed his brow lightly. “I would love to face a _Valarauka_ again, but I understand, this is for Glorfindel to deal with. I suppose I will have to wait.”   
  
“For another Balrog?” Fingolfin asked, dryness hiding his concern.   
  
“No. I think...for Morgoth, in memory of thee.” His lips moved down, pressed another, deeper kiss upon his half-brother's mouth. It was like a fire that entered every pore, curled down into Fingolfin's groin.   
  
“I think thou art too late for that, though I appreciate the thought.”   
  
Fëanor smiled, turning away. “We may be away some time, but I am sure I can trust thee.” He raised a hand and left the tent.   
  
His son's were waiting for him.   
Most of his sons.  
  
“Where is Celegorm?” he asked of Curufin, who usually knew.   
  
“He went hunting early, father, before we knew about the Balrog.”  
  
“Whither bound?”  
  
“North, he said.”  
  
“Good enough.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Fingolfin acts as High King in my stead.”   
  
“Father,” Maglor said. “be careful.”   
  
“If Glorfindel truly thought there was any danger he would not have permitted us to go.” Fëanor took him by the shoulders. “He can travel in the ways of the Valar, and we could not prevent it. He understands that we need to witness this demon's destruction, and he is confident of his powers.”   
  
Maglor gazed into his father's eyes. They were filled with flame.   
_I could not lose thee again,_ he thought, feeling the immense reassurance that emanated from him. Fëanor always conveyed invincibility, but he was not indestructible, and his death would ever be engraven upon the minds of his sons.   
  
_Thou wilt not, my beautiful son._ He turned to Maedhros.   
“I need thee here. I would that there were Balrogs enough for all of us, I would we could avenge our deaths. One of the Valar woke it, and if they still have such sight that they can see to Middle-earth, they will see it destroyed.”   
  
Maedhros held his doubts behind his eyes, but Fëanor read them and embraced him, and then the others. As he walked away, Maglor moved close to his elder brother and murmured, “This is not the same.”   
  
“Indeed not.” Caranthir rested a hand on Maedhros' back. “All of them and only one Balrog. The odds are hardly fair.”   
  
Acknowledging the intent, Maedhros briefly smiled but a silence spread over the whole encampment as the six rode away. From every vantage point the Elves watched them ride toward the mountains from whence the wind blew cold. ~   
  
  
  
~~~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valarauka - Balrog - Quenya  
> Tauron - Oromë  
> Gaear Gwathluin - The Sea of Blue Shadow


	43. ~ Winter's Vengeance ~

  
The riders did not speak for a long time. Each was steeped in their own thoughts but alert, though the land was quiet save for the sounds of bird and beast. Glorfindel eventually came out of his memories and reined in.  
  
“They are concerned.” He glanced at Fëanor.  
  
“Of course they are. I,” Fëanor smiled. “Am not. Thou, Fingon? Ecthelion?”  
  
Fingon's profile was his father's. Little wonder Maedhros had been so dazzled by his beauty.  
  
“I am not afraid, if that is what thou wouldst ask.”  
  
“It is always worse for those who wait,” Ecthelion said. “How many waited for those who marched out to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad to return.”  
  
Glorfindel looked at him.  
  
 _A hot wind snapped out the blue and silver oriflamme, brave and brilliant against the encroaching dark fire. Under it, despite the begrimed armor, the High King seemed to blaze like a star. And, notwithstanding his people all about him, he seemed alone. Quite alone.  
  
Gothmog was challenging Fingon, Glorfindel knew, with a sudden insight of doom and everything in him yearned to hack his way toward that standard and join the High King. He felt it in his warriors, in Ecthelion, in Turgon. And yet, at the last, his fidelity was to his own King, who must be got clear of this destruction.  
  
Fingon the Valiant.  
He turned his head away...*_  
  
He saw Fëanor gazing at Fingon, his face gone hard. Then the gem-bright eyes swept to Ecthelion and to Glorfindel.  
  
“I saw Durin's Bane in Moria,” Legolas spoke. “It carried a dreadful power and terror about it. Even the orcs were afraid of it.”  
  
The others looked at him.  
  
“And thou didst think of Glorfindel facing one.” Fingon's voice carried complete understanding.  
  
“I did. I had never come close to truly imagining it.”  
  
“No-one can.”  
  
“Once you said,” Legolas turned to Glorfindel. “that they are Maiar?”  
  
“Yes,” Glorfindel replied. “Spirits of bright flame, darkened by their service to Morgoth.”  
  
“And their power is not in doubt,” Legolas continued. “Yet they can be killed by Elven warriors. So surely whomever awoke it would know that? You are a Power now, and will slay it, and what will that have achieved?”  
  
“A good question,” Glorfindel said. “It may be nothing more than an act of spite.”  
  
“May be?” Ecthelion raised his brows. “What else could it be?”  
  
“The only ones who could give battle to us as warriors would not,” Glorfindel said. “And the Valars place is Valinor now; the place they chose for themselves. The _Blessed_ Realm.” He gave the name a bite. “On Middle-earth, if those who hate us could travel here, they would be malicious and dangerous, but not the Powers they once were. So they use what they can.”  
  
“Fools.” Fëanor moved restlessly. “Using their enemy's weapons. How ironic.”  
  
“Uncle.”  
  
“Yes, nephew?” Fëanor shone a blinding smile at Glorfindel.  
  
“It is _mine._ I do not want any mistakes, any accidents. I want its body destroyed and its spirit fled.”  
  
“I understand. I am waiting for Morgoth, myself.” They looked at him and he could see they were wondering if he meant it and decide that he was.  
“Glorfindel,” he said, serious now, meeting the eyes of the magnificent nephew he had taken and set his mark on so long ago. “I wish to see thee slay it. I was made to watch thy duel, as I was Ecthelion's and Fingon's, and my brother's with Morgoth. _I want to see thee slay it._ ”  
  
Fingon inclined his head in agreement.  
  
“I know,” Glorfindel murmured. “But I _know_ thee, also.”  
  
“Perhaps Ecthelion and I could sit on him,” Fingon cast a look at Fëanor.  
  
“The thought is very tempting, but would my eldest son not object?”  
  
Fingon laughed, unembarrassed. He knew full well that it was Fëanor whom had banished Maedhros' guilt and sent him forth with his blessing. A glorious time that had been. His eyes became hot and very bright.  
  
“Come,” Glorfindel winked at him and they rode on into the empty wind.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Celegorm paused when his father's voice entered his mind.  
  
 _No,_ Fëanor pre-empted him. _I want none of my sons with me._  
  
 _But..._  
  
 _There is no danger._  
  
 _It is a Balrog,_ Celegorm turned his horse without thinking. _Perhaps our opinions of what is dangerous differ somewhat !_  
  
 _And yet there is no danger. A few of us go to witness. It is important._  
  
 _Can Glorfindel guarantee thy safety?_  
  
 _Yes,_ came Glorfindel's mind-voice coldly.  
  
 _I saw thee die, father,_ Celegorm thought within a wall of privacy. The horse stamped and curveted as if infected by his fear that Glorfindel, who bore Fëanor no love, might permit him to be harmed.  
  
 _Do not attribute thine own treachery to me !_  
The mental shield had not been enough to keep Glorfindel out.  
  
 _How long wilt thou be gone?_ Celegorm tried to draw rein on his own temper.  
  
 _That depends on many things._  
  
Celegorm's two servants waited silently as he gazed back southward.  
  
 _Dost thou truly believe I would sacrifice another's life to see thee suffer?_ Glorfindel pressed. _No harm will come to Fëanor or any with me._  
  
No, Celegorm owned to himself. Glorfindel would never do anything so calculating, or so base.  
He had.  
  
 _Father !_  
  
 _Do not worry. Do something for me, rather._  
  
 _Anything._  
  
 _Ride north along the coast. I have set markers. I want to know the rise and fall of the inshore waters during the winter and summer._  
  
 _Why, adar?_  
  
 _I would like to build out over the water; it is something I never tried._  
  
Somehow, Fëanor's planning ahead thus was reassuring.  
  
 _I will go now,_ Celegorm agreed, needing something to do to keep his mind from blazing into worry over his father, and the gnawing, constant thought of Finrod. He turned toward the west and his servants, unquestioning, followed him.  
  
 _Maedhros?_  
  
 _Where art thou? Has thou spoken with father?_  
  
His elder brother sounded calm enough, Celegorm thought.  
  
 _Yes. How dost thou feel about it?_  
  
 _I trust Glorfindel. Of course I am concerned. But I feel Glorfindel's power more than I felt power from any of the Valar even in the time of the Trees. Elves have slain Balrogs, brother. Maglor did. Our father died, as Fingon died, because another pinned their arms with whips._  
  
 _I know._ Celegorm took a long breath. _Father asked me to do something. After, I will hunt north along the coast._  
  
~~~  
  
Gaear Gwathluin fascinated Fëanor, for it was such a shallow sea. No great rivers fed into it, only streams from the Orocarni. Unlike Rhun and Nurnen it was really an open freshwater lake, because water constantly ran from it, but he thought it must have been larger once, was gradually shrinking and might become landlocked in ages to come. The Teleri who had sailed them here were also intrigued, and had taken out small craft, making soundings and charts.  
  
A few leagues north of the encampment, lay what the Noldor called the Green Steps. They were a chain of islands running roughly east to west across the waters and Fëanor had talked of linking them with bridges, building villas on the larger ones. Close by, Celegorm found the marked poles his father had sunk in the summer, some submerged now.  
  
Fëanor's voice was crisp in his mind.  
 _About two ells? I thank thee. Art thou returning to the camp?_  
  
 _Not yet, father. We will camp and I think I will hunt and explore for a time. How is it with thee?_  
  
 _All is well._  
  
The night was quiet, and yet he did not sleep.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Maglor looked up as his name was spoken, then climbed from the footings.  
  
“Uncle?”  
  
“It is almost dark. Come.”  
  
“I did not realize.” He turned back to the men. “That is enough for today. My thanks.”  
  
Both were shirtless. All of them, prince or servant, were working on the building, in the quarries or mines.  
  
“Hast thou heard anything from Gorthaurion?” Fingolfin asked.  
  
“Why would I?” Maglor was genuinely surprised, but felt heat surge into his face.  
  
“Let us bathe first. Come and eat with me.”  
  
They washed quickly and Maglor, dressed, walked to Fingolfin's tent in the dusk. Fish had been caught and seasoned with herbs and salt.  
  
“Uncle, why wouldst thou think I would speak to Gorthaurion?” he asked, as wine was poured.  
  
“I wondered if thou hadst asked him to aid Glorfindel.”  
  
“Glorfindel needs no aid.”  
  
“No, I do not think he does, but...” Fingolfin paused and then went on ironically: “ _But,_ every-one in that group was slain by Balrogs, save for Legolas, and the dark side of my heart remembers only that.”  
  
“Glorfindel and Ecthelion did not fight to win,” Maglor murmured. “And my father and Fingon...” He heard breath hiss into his lungs and rose. “were disarmed.”  
  
Fingolfin's face was shadowed.  
  
“Thou didst slay one.”  
  
“It was luck.”  
  
“I do not think so.” Fingolfin's expression gentled. He swept his fingers up Maglor's shoulder and neck, into the damp, loose hair. “No. I have seen thee fight. All my brother's sons burn with his fire.” He bent his head and kissed the high cheekbone, which bloomed warm under it, and whispered. “Seeing thee, after _he_ died was both joy and pain, _Macalaurë,_ in a world where the light had gone out.” He straightened, and his voice changed, hardened. “I believe Glorfindel can slay a Balrog. But I do not trust the Valar not to meddle.”  
  
Maglor looked up at him. “What could they do?” he asked in sudden uncertainty, locking his hand over Fingolfin's wrist.  
  
“I wonder.”  
  
 _Glorfindel?_ Maglor threw his concern out into the night.  
  
 _I have considered that,_ came back the calm response. _Vanimórë will aid me if it is necessary. One thing I will say: there is no danger of my becoming overweeningly arrogant when every-one has such faith in me._  
  
Fingolfin heard him too. For a moment, it broke the tension.  
  
 _We do have faith in thee,_ Maglor protested. _But for us, after the Long Peace, there was so much defeat, so much death..._  
  
 _I know. I understand. And I do know the need not to underestimate the malice of certain of the Ainur. But we also have friends among them._  
  
 _I personally feel sorry for the Balrog._ Vanimórë's voice murmured in his mind, before withdrawing with a teasing caress. Maglor flicked anger after it.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“They may hear...”  
  
“Dost thou care?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Glorfindel heard the groan and gasp as he thrust in, deep, deeper, clenched by tight muscle, hardening the more. Moonlight poured cold through bare-leaved branched, patterning Legolas back like whip-strokes.  
  
“Shall I stop?” He asked, knowing he could not, and watched himself, dark, swollen, oiled, withdraw, and felt Legolas thrust back.  
  
“No !” A sharp, breathless protest.  
  
Glorfindel's laugh broke on a growl as he abandoned the game and possessed with the savagery of abstinence and power and purest hunger, and Legolas responded, his moans rising in the chill night, skin turned to wet silk, within and without. They did not care, burning this deeply in the fire. With their keen hearing, Elves were polite enough _not_ to hear others intimate moments, although of course they did, and were roused in the cold, their flesh burning against the dark.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Once there had been joy and harmony, and then...dissonance, new thoughts of power, freedom, _hungers_... It remembered war, vast halls of stone red-lit by fire, slow rivers of molten rock deep under the earth, the shaking of the world when the Powers that he had known before Arda came down and Utumno was devastated. It was not the first time the Balrog had known pain. Half-buried, concealed under wreckage, it had slowly healed. Later, it had found Morgoth's highest servant in the deep places of the fortress, and others had come. In the screaming dark of the north, buffeted by howling winds and the mutters of the injured world, they had gone west. To Angband.  
  
After long ages, Melkor returned, and they bowed before him. In that time the vast forges worked and the screams of tormented souls skirled upward from the breeding dens and rooms where the new creatures that were captured were slowly changed into the race of the orcs. And then _they_ came, the ones from across the sea, with sharp swords and star-fire eyes.  
The Balrog would not have believed that they could cause pain, even dare to give battle but they had, though they suffered grievously and died. But so did Melkor's servants die.  
Then another war, like the fall of mountains, flame upon Angband, and there was only death, surrender, or flight.  
  
Melkor had been imprisoned for Ages. It was said that there was no judgment save the Void for those who followed him.  
  
And so the Balrog had fled and become...nothing; a memory of fire in the roots of the mountains where, in the slow drip of time, rock grew and secret dark waters licked it hollow.  
  
The mind that scratched at his was insistent as an unpleasant tongue. The core of heat swelled to anger and memories crashed through the agelong limbo. The mind withdrew but the Balrog sensed the approach of power, a spear of pitiless wrath aimed at him.  
It gathered itself into shadow and went to meet the enemy. The Balrog was not a creature of the dark, though it had lived long under the earth in Utumno and Angband, and wanted to feel the breadth of the world again before it went into night. If it cowered under the mountains the Power would find and corner it like an orc in a hole. It wondered whom had awoken it and why, how long it had lain dormant.  
  
It could not judge how much time passed until it sensed moving air and sun, for fire called to fire. It heard its claws scrape on stone, saw them stroked by faint light, and forced itself toward the light. Rock shifted and moved, fell with a rumble behind it.  
As it stepped out, fire rushed up and engulfed it; a sensuous, beautiful feeling. Of all Melkor's servants only the Balrogs had been unafraid of the sun, though they hated it; its brilliance was a reminder of what they once had been.  
  
It had no sword, no whip, the weapons it had wielded for so long, but strength exploded through it, and it stood tall and monstrous, letting out a roar that crashed back and forth from the rocks.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The mountains fell steep into pine-clad foothills from passes that buttressed the sky like the battlements of a titanic, ruined castle. Raging waters poured down gutters of stone, and rocks shrugged off the thin soil. Under the winter sun there was a stern, bleak beauty to the place. The only animals they had seen were wild goats and huge yak with their sweeping horns and long coats.  
  
A sound drifted distantly from far above them. The horses flicked their ears and stamped.  
  
“It is coming.” Glorfindel's voice was calm as milk. “Dismount.”  
  
Once free, the horses bolted, but the Elves knew they would return after. All creatures fear fire, and their mounts were wise enough to flee from it.  
  
None of them wore armor. The steel would heat unbearably in close combat with a Balrog, thus all of them wore brigandines with pauldrons of overlapping stiffened leather, and bore no metal but their weapons.  
  
Glorfindel stepped forward, and then he began to run. He had seen this place in his mind, this narrow water-cut valley flanked by cliffs.  
  
He came to the brink and looked out across the swoop of air before him. Black scree slopes plunged from glittering white peaks so far up they seemed part of some other world poured down from the sky. To his left the rock split and tumbled into a gorge where a river fumed and wrangled.  
  
At first it was no larger than a red spark blown from a fire.  
Behind him, he felt the emotions of the others, heard the creak of their harness.  
  
“Stay this side,” he ordered and ran at the gap, leaping it and landing neatly. Legolas' inner exclamation of relief gasped in his mind. He smiled in reassurance.  
  
And then it was coming, no longer small but a dark shape wreathed in flame, fire for hair, laval eyes. Glorfindel saw again a burning city, bodies with black-scorched armor, Gondolindrim warriors standing staunch and defiant under the terror of the demons. He felt the snow-wind of Cristhorn and the pain...  
Fury concentrated into a white hot star in his breast. He hefted the iron spear, and flung it. It arced through the air, seeming to move so very slowly, then met the onrush of the Balrog and struck it.  
  
There was a dreadful scream. Far above in some hidden valley snow broke and thundered down. Glorfindel began to walk toward the demon as it clawed the spear, drew it out with another roar.  
  
“Come, thou motherless bastard!” Glorfindel's stride increased, fingers tightening on his sword hilt. “ _ **Come to me !**_ ”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Dawn illuminated a faint ground-frost. Alagarus had replenished the fire and Bellarus was heating wine. The woods to the north wore faint mist about their feet like a womans' diaphanous skirts. As Celegorm watched, a great deer, many-tined and proud drifted from the trees.  
  
“Let us hunt,” he said.  
  
The chase was on him, in his blood as he reached the skirts of the forest, and he laughed and cursed together, for had he a hunting-dog he could have sent it into the misty trees. He did not have hounds not yet, not after Huan. Whom had fulfilled his destiny, or so it was said. Destiny; that all-encompassing word, so often allied with _doom._ Like his father, Celegorm did not believe in such absolutes.  
  
His servants never saw the arrows that killed them, and Celegorm did not see the blow that brought night back down over him.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Sire!”  
  
Fingolfin looked up, recognizing one of Turgon's warriors. A thrill coursed through him like ice-water, his senses flashed into alertness, and he snapped, “What is it?”  
  
At the man's hurried explanation he ran from the tent.  
  
The south-edge of the camp was in uproar. He saw Maedhros' copper-red mane, Amrod, Amras, Turgon. Above all their heads, snapping in the wind, flung the royal dorsal of the House of Finrod.  
  
Fingolfin plunged through the crowd with a fierceness that went before him like a wave. The people moved back.  
  
Finrod, shining and perilous, was standing with hand on sword hilt facing Curufin, who was being restrained by Maedhros and Maglor.  
  
“...then meet me !” Curufin ended.  
  
“ _Thou_ canst wait. Never didst thou do anything without following thy brother.”  
  
“Finrod,” Maedhros said. “Hold. There are too many old hates here. If another war starts it will never end.”  
  
“I did not come to start a war, Maedhros,” Finrod refuted. “I came to find thy damned treacherous brother. _Where is Celegorm?_ ”  
  
“Finrod.” Fingolfin's voice rang out like a trump. His eyes took in everything: Turgon and his people close by, the Fëanorions massed together, Finrod's house arrayed at his back, armed and ready.  
  
“My lord uncle.” The ice-blue eyes turned to him. Finrod raised a hand to his breast. “I have spoken to Glorfindel. I know that there is no place here for old feuds, for bloodshed, but I _will_ see Celegorm. Where is he?”  
  
Yes, where was he? Fingolfin had not seen that pale head, as fair as Finrod's anywhere. He raised a brow at Maedhros.  
  
“He is away. Hunting.” _Thank Eru!_  
  
“No, he is _not!_ ” The voice came from far back in the gathering. They watched as the crowd split and gave before an Elf Fingolfin had not seen since Mereth Aderthad. He had changed, his hair woven with strands of frost, something dark in the green eyes. Exclamations swept the the Elves, and Finrod said, _“Daeron?”_  
  
“There is no time for explanations.” Daeron did not look at the Fëanorions'. His eyes were locked upon Fingolfin's. “They went hunting. I followed, but a storm delayed me.” He pointed to the north. “I found two dead nigh to a wood, perhaps five leagues north. They bore the badge of Celegorm Fëanorion. He was not with them.”  
  
“They?” Curufin cried over the raised voices. “ _Who?_ ”  
  
Fingolfin looked into Daeron's eyes and wheels began to turn in his mind. _Too many coincidences..._  
  
“The sons of Dior,” he said.  
  
Finrod spun in a flurry of cream hair, mounted the great horse. It flung itself forward under the spur of his mind, and the Elves scattered like a covey of geese before him.  
  
“Where in the hells is Glorfindel?” Curufin almost screamed.  
  
 _Glorfindel!_ Fingolfin flung out into the cold air.  
  
There was no answer. ~  
  
  
  
~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Quote from And The Hells Were Opened ~ Lords of the Light


	44. ~ When Blood Is Not Enough ~

  
~ ~ The sound of hooves thundering behind him brought Finrod's head about. His expression was calm as new-fallen snow, but his eyes burned up in blue challenge. Then he recognized the horse as belonging to one of his captains' and reined in so the rider could come alongside.  
  
 _I want thee to swear to me not to harm them._ Daeron reached out to him. _I do not trust the others, but I will lead thee to the place they will have taken Celegorm Fëanorion._  
  
Finrod hesitated a moment.  
 _I cannot swear it if they have harmed or killed him._  
  
 _They will not kill him I think, or at least not at once._  
  
The land rolled under the long strides of the horses as they exchanged thoughts and Daeron, whom had known Finrod of old in Doriath, allowed some of his barriers to fall, some of his pain for the twin sons of Dior to show. He told Finrod of the fear which had twisted them all their long lives, their dreams of vengeance that could never, they believed, be effectuated, their appetite for pain, for one another...for himself.  
  
 _I will not hurt them,_ Finrod agreed at last, his eyes dark with all he had been told. Dear Eru, the doom that lay on the Noldor seemed to entangle all that crossed it's path. It was like a monstrous spider-web. It had touched all of them. Perhaps they were all damaged beyond healing.  
  
 _Where are we going?_  
  
Daeron turned his mount east toward the lake.  
 _These islands stretch across the lake,_ he gestured. _Even a poor sailor can row from one to the other without much effort, although it is dangerous when windy because of the reefs. They are like stepping stones. Perhaps once, they were low hills. There is one where they go, at times. Let the others search and hunt. They will find nothing. I have a small craft drawn up, but we must wait until dusk. That will not be long._  
  
 _What will they do to him?_  
  
 _They will make him pay in pain for their fear._  
  
 _I am before them in the lists._ Finrod's face was like a lovely statue's in the the failing light.  
  
 _Fëanor said he did not know if his son would have slain them._  
  
 _I am sorry Daeron, I cannot know that either. He loved me and then turned my people against me. I would like to think that he would not harm a child, but they did kill innocents in the hot blood of war._ He laid a hand on Daeron's breast. _But I will do anything to prevent them short of killing them. And thou must help me._  
  
A fist of fear clenched itself in Finrod's gut. He tried to breath through it, to control the impulses which frayed and sparked into confusion. He knew where Glorfindel had gone and did not believe any Balrog could hurt him now, but he also knew why it had been woken: this was the work of Manwë or Námo, rousing an ancient demon, drawing Glorfindel to the challenge they knew he would meet, perhaps hoping it would kill at least one of the Noldor before he slew it.  
Glorfindel had known _something,_ though. The twins – he must have sensed them and seen into their souls, thus he had advised Finrod to come. Glorfindel did not want to aid Celegorm himself, but for his brother's sake he would not see him dead.  
  
And so it was for Finrod to aid his faithless cousin.  
  
 _Let him die,_ scraped a thought in his mind.  
  
 _Fool!_ he blazed at it. _Whatever happens to him will be at my hands, not at theirs, not at thine. No-one's but mine. I have the **right!**_  
  
The dusk, as Daeron had said, was coming down quickly, making visibility poor, even for Elven eyes. Far away, they could hear the sound of those hunting for Celegorm, horns and cries. To the east, the sun, briefly escaping the low cloud-edge, glared red at the distant mountains.  
  
Sudden fear iced through Finrod. He called his cousin's name. There was no response.  
  
 _No, he is not dead. I would have felt him die. Glorfindel?_  
  
His brother too, did not answer.  
  
Daeron surveyed the sky. There was fog coming.  
 _We must be very quiet. Why did thy lords not follow thee?_  
  
 _I have ordered them not to. This is my task, mine alone._  
  
Very well, Daeron nodded. _Thou shouldst take off thine armor, for the sake of stealth._  
  
 _Why did thou come to me?_ Finrod asked. _Because we knew one another? Didst thou not think I had betrayed thee when I aided Beren?_  
  
 _I did not think thou wert here, Finrod. I came before and marked the banners. Thy brother – he told me._ The faint shrug was barely discernible. _It was an oath. Even if Beren have never been born, Lúthien would not have loved me. Though it took me some time to own it. As it is...I have had her blood with me._  
  
Finrod took Daeron's face in his hands and kissed his brow.  
  
“This is why Glorfindel asked me to come,” he whispered, and braided back his loose hair. He had come in full panoply of a king to confront Celegorm, now he stood up in tunic, breeches and boots. Daeron slung the sword-belt around his waist and deftly buckled it.  
  
“I cannot let them kill him,” he murmured. “It will not heal them. I do not think anything will.”  
  
Finrod went very still, then his hand flashed out to clasp Daeron's wrist.  
“No.” His eyes shone through the murk. “I will not do that, my friend.”  
  
“We may have to.”  
  
“ _No._ We can disarm them, do whatever we must, but I will not have the blood of my kin on my hands !”  
  
Daeron looked at him for a long moment.  
“Finrod the Beloved,” he said softly. “Thou wert well named.”  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
He woke. The light was wan. He winced against the beginnings of a headache, trying to see.  
  
 _Celegorm!_ A cacophony of voices welled in his mind; his brothers. They knew he had gone, but how? Glorfindel? Their relief at feeling him washed warm through his soul.  
  
 _I do not know where I am._  
  
 _Alagarus and Bellaras are slain !_ Curufin, sharp and angry, and Celegorm swore. Slain? By whom? He had thought this new haven safe.  
  
 _We cannot reach Glorfindel. What canst thou see? Help us!_ Maedhros commanded him.  
  
Celegorm willed himself to ignore his aches and take stock of his surroundings. He was upright, his back pressed against wood. Cold air flowed into his face as he raised his head. There were trees around him, the dark green of winter pine.  
  
 _Naked...I am naked._ As he tried to move, cords bit into his ankles and wrists. He was bound, held firmly by his waist with hempen rope. Panic and pain cracked through him.  
 _And bound._  
  
He closed his eyes. What could he hear, smell? _Wind, water fretting against rocks. Pine resin and rain. Wood sap._ He must be bound against a cut sapling and his muscles were protesting at being held in this position.  
  
After a moment of deep breathing, he cautiously opened his eyes again. There was something above him, barring the pale sky.  
  
 _What...?_  
  
It was not a roof, unless one under construction. One one side was a solid, sloping support.  
  
Then he heard movement. The thump of of hooves on turf. They clicked as they hit wood and echoed hollowly over his head. The slope was, he realized, a ramp. He smelled the musk of a deer, and then there was a thud as it fell upon the beams.  
  
Warm liquid spilled down over him. Blood, its hot copper tang thick and shocking, rolled like tears down his face and chest. He saw it spatter over his bare feet.  
  
“Mother, accept our gift,” some-one said, light and sweet.  
  
They came soundlessly into his vision, two twins like incarnations of winter; silver-frost hair and milky skin, deep-blue eyes. They were naked, and their erections jutted dark and proud against their paleness. Like wolves, they approached him, dangerous, wary, unblinking.  
  
They circled him, and his flesh prickled. One stepped close, tilting his head. A spot of blood fell from the wood onto his brow. A hand reached out hesitantly. Pride dictated that he not turn his head away as slim fingers drew down his cheek and throat. They came away red, spread before his eyes.  
  
“Dost thou know us, Celegorm Fëanorion?” The voice almost dreamy.  
  
“I know thee.” The void had not wiped the image of those two young faces from his mind. The foreshadowing of what they would become had been there in the piquant, elegant bones.  
  
It would serve no purpose to deny he would have killed them. The truth was he did not know. His words anyhow, would be useless. They would not believe him.  
  
“Thou didst not die,” he whispered.  
  
The lapis eyes stared at him, blank and beautiful. Bloody fingers curled into his hair.  
  
“But _thou_ shalt,” Elured smiled.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Ichor stained the grey rock. Without its whip and sword, the Balrog tried to close with Glorfindel and grapple with him, but was kept at bay by a wall of woven steel which had opened cuts in its black hide.  
  
 _Stop dancing with the cursed thing and kill it,_ Fëanor's voice snapped into his mind as Glorfindel pivoted a complete circle, heard the scream, saw the gout of blood.  
  
The Balrog had not faced power like this since the Great Destruction. Though mantled in flame as it leapt down the mountain's flank, it had quailed as it saw what had come to confront it. The Elves soul-fire was intense as the gems Melkor had once worn on his brow. The one that challenged him was golden and terrible, and the spear he hurled brought back the memory of pain. It knew this was the last battle, alone in this grim place; after, there would be only darkness, no fire, no light. The thought was terrifying. It tried again to close with the warrior, conscious of the others who witnessed. There was something fierce and eager in their minds, and the Balrog recognized two that had died long ago. It had cast a whip about them both so that Gothmog might deliver the death blow. And this one, whose sword was like a whip of light, it knew also, from a ruined, falling city.  
  
The Balrog remembered Gondolin, the red pleasure of battle and killing. There had been glory in the fear, the blood, the screams...Sweeping out its taloned hand, it bellowed, and the warrior whirled under its arm, swift and deadly. Pain seared a leg and it lurched forward, unbalanced. The ground seemed to split at his feet, plunging sheer to a river-bed punctured by massive boulders. The warrior had planned it thus, it realized as, with a scream of fire, it fell. Desperately, it twisted, talons scouring bare rock. Far below, the water roared.  
  
The Balrog looked up. The warrior stood above, sword lifted, ready to bring the edge down down on his wrists. His face shone, pitiless. In that everlasting moment the Balrog remembered what it once had been before Utumno, before darkness. The mind could not barricade itself from memory at the edge of death. It had wanted to experience life. The price for that had been eternal servitude, eternal fear.  
  
In a voice like the hiss of fire, it said, “Please.”  
  
The setting sun shouted from steel as the sword flashed up.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
One of them came forward with an earthenware cup. Celegorm thought it was water, and did not refuse it, for he was thirsty, and needed to be alert. But it was metheglin, sweet and strong, with a strange tang to it which alerted him even as he swallowed eagerly.Some herb or fungus swam through his blood. Colors took on a misty hue, the twins movements seemed to slow. A drug. Of course. It explained their dreaminess.  
  
The pain dissolved under it, and he found himself distantly wondering why they would give him something to ease him.  
 _Father,_ he thought, through rainbow fog, then, _Finrod..._  
  
He felt the bindings loosen and fell forward onto his hands and knees, smelled grass and earth and leaf-mold. Hands touched him again, almost cautiously, as if he was a beast that might turn and bite. They caressed down to his buttocks and slid into the cleft. A finger pushed itself inward. He clenched against the intrusion, wanting to struggle, push to his feet, fight, but he was locked within floating languor.  
  
The finger was withdrawn, and then there was something wider, hotter, harder. It drove into him. Far under the drug, pain tore and he knew he cried out, heard it echoed in pleasure and triumph. The part of his mind that was clear watched as he was taken, harder, harder, red-raw pain and heavy heat, faster, faster, words and breaths mingling in something that was almost a chant. He was two people, a body that refused to obey his mind, and a mind that observed.  
  
 _Oh, Eru, the pain..._  
  
He tried to block out the violation and could not. He was chained to seeing, to feeling, and utterly helpless.  
  
As one withdrew from him, the other took his place. Celegorm's knees gave way. They turned him on his back, lifted his legs.  
  
 _No...!_  
  
Frosty hair spilled over him, as the pain rose to a scream in his mind. Something wet struck his face, and he thought it was blood, but saw the twin who raped him was weeping, white teeth bared in grief and hunger both. Salt on his tongue, a savage burst of agony, and terrible wracking sobs.  
  
Before the darkness came down, he saw them embrace, kiss, arms clinging, bodies shaking, tangled hair, white skin, unassuagable sorrow...  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Celegorm!” Fëanor's shout slammed from the stone like a thrown knife. “ _Glorfindel!_ ” Then. _Gorthaurion!_  
  
Far away, Vanimórë heard the unconstrained rage in Fëanor at having to _ask for aid._ His face was stern as a death mask as he reluctantly turned his focus from Glorfindel to New Cuiviénen, and it did not change as he opened his mind to what had passed there.  
  
 _Thy son lives,_ he told Fëanor. _I will not interfere._  
  
There was too much pain in those damaged twins for him to step in. Celegorm himself did not know what he might have done to them. He had betrayed one he loved to a dark and agonizing death. And beyond and above all that, it was not for Vanimórë to save him, indeed he could not, not now, not after rape. That was for another to do.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Please.”  
  
The word was Valarin.  
  
The demon hung, black claws carving shallow runnels in the stone as it slipped.  
  
Glorfindel held his sword at the apex of its ascent, staring down into the red-burning eyes. Fëanor's shout glanced off his concentration.  
  
 _Please._  
  
The sinking sun threw a last spear of light upon it, and there was a burst of flame that even Glorfindel blinked against, and then looked _through._ The hands that slid at last from the ledge were white, long fingered and fine.  
  
Glorfindel threw himself flat, caught one wrist, and pulled the demon back. For a moment there was silence like a song of shock. Wounds showed dark against the pale skin. The streaming mane was red, spreading like a night-fire on the rock. He knelt and turned it. The head fell back over his arm.  
  
 _This is what he once was..._  
  
This was how the Balrog had imagined himself when the Earth had been Music, a vision shown to the Ainur by the One. And he was beautiful.  
Long-lashed eyes opened. They were the color of polished bronze.  
  
“Give me back my name, Lord,” the Maia whispered, and Glorfindel, his throat clenching around rage and sorrow, reached into the past, into the ancient soul and said, “Thy name was _Coldagnir._ ” ~  
  
  
  
~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names courtesy of Elf Fetish Names, by Darth Fingon


	45. ~ White Moths ~

  
_Glorfindel !_

This time he felt the rage and pain in Fëanor and looked up.  
The high king had leaped the chasm and was within a heartbeat of violence, but his glance at the wounded Balrog was almost perfunctory. The quenched demon was simply not as important as his son. Its eyes were closed again and it held itself very still as if anticipating a death-blow.

“ _Celegorm !_ ” There was raw agony in his voice. Glorfindel unlocked his mind which had been clenched about the battle. He saw what had been done, when his attention and Vanimórë's had been elsewhere. For a moment he could not speak. His anger against Celegorm twisted into shock.

_I should have warned him._

And yet, he had not. Did he truly regret it, having been made to witness Finrod's death in Tol-in-Gaurhoth? _No,_ whispered a tiny voice of truth in his mind. _I wanted vengeance, but I wanted to keep my hands clean. I guessed something might happen, but all I would do was ask Finrod to come, thinking to keep Celegorm from wandering._

He came to his feet.

 _Fëanor cannot heal him,_ Vanimórë's voice said into his mind. _Thou dost know that. He will only make the situation worse. Finrod will soon be there._

Glorfindel looked into the fire of Fëanor's eyes and saw there the love for his sons which not even his greatest detractors could deny. He said, carefully, “Thou canst not help him, uncle. Not now. Finrod can. He will.”

The force within Fëanor was ready to blast out in a blow, an unsheathed sword, and Eru, it was powerful, as if all the might of a star seethed under his skin.

“ _Finrod will,_ and _thou must let him._ Thou must give him this time.”

Fëanor broke the screaming tension with a suddenness which almost cracked the air. He ran and jumped the gorge as if it were easy, turning as he backed.

“Didst thou _know?_ ” he demanded, as if he would pull the truth from Glorfindel's soul by will alone. “ _Didst thou know this would happen?_ ”

“I am not all-knowing !”

“Yet thou didst know _something !_ ”

“I knew of Dior's sons,” Glorfindel said evenly. “And didst thou not guess?” He watched Fëanor's hand tighten on his sword hilt as he remembered Daeron.

“They were over an hundred leagues from our encampment,” he continued. “I sensed their minds. They were – are – mad. Thy son was as a demon out of the past to them.”

A sound came from Fëanor's throat; a keening of such pain that Glorfindel's heart contracted. Then the high king swung away, moving like a terrible radiance in the dusk. The clatter of horses hooves sounded.

 _I will follow him,_ Fingon said. _Maedhros is... **what happened?**_

“Celegorm has been captured and raped,” Glorfindel told them forcing the words into flatness. “By the sons of Dior, who survived the attack on Doriath and came east. They were told that he would rape and kill them.”

There was a burst of stillness that emptied the air of all other sound.

“And thou couldst not prevent it?” Ecthelion asked. Legolas watched, his brows drawn, knives still in his hands.

“No. When I knew it was too late.”

“Did the Valar do this?” Legolas asked.

“I do not see how they could know. I think they woke the Balrog from pure malice, hoping it would kill some of us. And the Valar did not influence Dior's sons.” Suddenly Glorfindel cursed and called out to his brother.

 _Ah, thank Eru !_ Finrod's response leapt the leagues between them. _Glorfindel, I think Celegorm has been hurt...he called out, but it was as if he were drunk..._ There was strain all through his mind.

_I am sorry, brother. I could not be there, and Gorthaurion was watching me._

There was a moment wherein Finrod assimilated all the nuances of Glorfindel's tone and then, _I am with Daeron. I will do what I can. But I will not kill those twins...I cannot._

_I will not allow them to harm **thee.**_

_They will not, my dear,_ Finrod promised. _Daeron knows them._

The night had come down under a pall of cloud. The roar of water sounded lonely and hard in the gloom. Glorfindel stared into the west and then down again at the demon he had bested. There was a touch on his shoulder. Legolas and Ecthelion had leaped to join him.

“What will you do?” Legolas asked, looking in fascinated awe at the naked figure. His hand tightened on Glorfindel's shoulder, conveying a world of love and relief. “Is it dead?” When it had come down upon them, he had seen again Durin's Bane, felt the terror of the thing in Moria. But this was not a demon of might and black fire. Lying there, bleeding, naked, it might have been an Elf. He saw Ecthelion's face, pale under his black hair, gazing at it.

“No.” Glorfindel's voice came muted.

“What of Fëanor?” Ecthelion said. “Shouldst thou not use thy power to take him to Celegorm? Shouldst thou not intervene now?”

“No. Fëanor would kill them – Elured and Elurin, and probably Daeron too. It will not help Celegorm, and I cannot countenance it.”

“He will not cool off. He will want to kill them, and his other sons will be before him in that.”

“They do not know where he is, and I hope to avoid that.”

Ecthelion gave him a long look. “Thou hast reason to hate Celegorm my friend, I admit, _and his father._ ” He turned away. Legolas laid long fingers against Glorfindel's cheek.

“There was nothing you could have done,” he said firmly.

“Ah, Legolas,” Glorfindel said. “Eru forgive me, but I am _glad_ I could not intervene.”

There was a moon, brightening the overcast like a lamp behind black gauze.

“What will you do now?” Legolas repeated the question softly.

Glorfindel looked down at the wounded Balrog.

“Go to the horses,” he said. “I will join thee soon.”

~~~

Warmth. Touch.  
Hands moved over him.  
For a time, he could only _feel._ There were furs beneath him, some thick soft pelt. And there was pain.

_Celegorm !_

His mind uncoiled reluctantly. A door cracked open within it. In a trickle, then a torrent, memories came back, and with them the horror.

 _No..._  
He tried to move, but his body was weighted, a stone, a corpse.

_Celegorm !_

“He cannot die yet...”

“He will not.”

A choking sob. “I thought...”

“Peace, love. He will not die yet.”

“His eyes are closed...”

“It is only the drug.”

“He will die, Eluréd ! Too soon. It is too soon...!” The words caught like a child's hiccuping sobs.

_Celegorm !_

That was Maglor, with tears and grief. _Hold, brother, hold. I did. Please._

 _All Elves die when they are raped. Thy souls are too close-knit to thy bodies. Even now thy spirit shrugs itself free._ There was malicious glee in the words, but they were fainter than the others who clamored for him.

 _Foolish ! Thou art so foolish. Still thou canst not resist, and each time thy monolithic stupidity trips thee up ! All Elves die..._ he mimicked precisely. _...except Maedhros and Maglor and Fanari Penlodiel._

An arm slid under him, he felt himself raised. Firelight danced between his lashes. Liquid surged against his lips, into his mouth. He swallowed the mead reflexively, and then wanted to vomit, remembering the drug. He did not think he tasted the same bitterness this time, but he was unsure.

“He is a demon, a beautiful demon...”

Light fingers brushed his face, traced down his chest, his stomach, his flaccid sex. Pain still ground within him, in the tear of tight muscle, bruising, but he was relieved. If he could feel, he could live.

And he wanted to live. Maglor had said to him, _If I died, I thought I would lose all of thee, forever. I had to live to remember._

His wounded soul fluttered like a shot bird trying to take to the air again.

_**Celegorm !** _

The familiar fire was more potent than the mead. Fury like a tempest, anguish, _love._

 _Adar..._ His eyes opened to night, the glow of a fire. He smelled smoke, pine and fog.

_Do not thou give up! **I forbid it !**_

Deep inside he smiled at that command.

_This is why I want to live._

The reasons were there with him in the emotions that flowed from his brothers, from Fëanor – from Finrod.  
That was the other voice, its serenity lathed thin by pain.  
But were those reasons enough? He had not comprehended the damage that rape could do to one's fëa. This was not a battle-wound, it was more akin to the torment he had felt at his father's death, at Finrod's.

The twins were shapes of molded stone stroked by the fire-glow. Celegorm saw the gleam of tears. They clasped one another, the preternatural calm they had displayed when first he had seen them scoured away, leaving what had festered underneath for so long. Their hands were like white moths, alighting, fluttering on one another.

“He...it should not have been like this ! He has to wake, to...”

“Hush, beloved. He is awake...”

Elurín's face shook. “I _need...!_ ”

“I know,” his brother thrust long hands into the webs of hair. “There can never be enough pain...”

Celegorm's blood bolted through him in fear, but he held himself still. That last drink had not been tainted, and he was no longer bound. Could he get to his feet? Could he fight and run?

_Trust me to know this, Fëanorion: Necessity is a great spur. But perhaps thou wilt not have to..._

The voice was rich, dispassionate. He remembered it from the encampment when Varda was ousted. Gorthaurion was aware of this, and could, presumably intervene. He was choosing not to. Why? He had aided Maglor. And Glorfindel too had done nothing.

The twins bodies formed an arch as they kissed and unfolded again. One of them leaned over him on hands and knees, and the knelt. Elurín cried out as he was taken, his hair fell cold over Celegorm's naked shoulders.

“Eluréd, _please !_ ” And then he moaned and threw back his head. The taking was violent, savage. Flesh slammed against flesh and they sobbed and cursed and begged. Celegorm felt their coupling through his own body, his own blood, and shame rooted itself in his soul. He had done this. He had not killed them, not so much as laid a hand on them, but their fear of what he might have done had corroded their spirits down the ages, and the only balm to fear was pain.

And now they had discovered it was not enough.

With a wail of agony, Elurín collapsed, falling onto Celegorm. Eluréd staggered, came to his feet, weeping. He threw his hands against his head and raising his head to the sky, he screamed. The sound was mined from a lode of pure despair, and it drove cold through Celegorm's blood. Elurín's breath gasped against his shoulder.

“Hurt me,” he begged.

Eluréd's face was starkly beautiful, washed by firelight and tears as he stared at his brother. Celegorm's heart tumbled over with sorrow, plummeted into a chasm, and he realized he too was crying, not from pain of the body or the outrage of his soul, but from pity.  
He found he could not shift blame, could not protest that he had not touched them. He had gone into Doriath to kill, it did not matter who. Finrod had died, and the one person whom might have healed him, whose eyes had seen him, truly seen _him,_ had turned away, leaving him damned, bereft and as mad as...these twins.

They had been so young, and frozen with terror. The rooms and passageways were a charnel house where blood ran, brain-matter lay in gobbets with loops of stinking intestine. His face, under the helm, must have indeed seemed demonic as he stared at the twins, and given his orders...  
...which had lead to...  
...here.

Eluréd crouched, lithe as a wolf, his hand questing for something under the pelts. A knife-blade burned light into Celegorm's eyes.

“Eyes of fire...” Eluréd whispered. He drew the knife across his own breast, then knelt and rammed it into the ground. His fingers traced the shallow cut, smoothed gently across Celegorm's lips.

Elurín moaned, his mouth seeking his brothers, then Celegorm's. Eluréd's took its place. They tasted of honeyed mead, the salt of tears, blood, and their movements were ravenous and blind and lost.

Eluréd sank down, and both of them enfolded him. They too, must have taken some drug, Celegorm thought, as their heads dropped against his shoulders, their legs sliding over his. He felt the shudder of their bodies, the gradual easing of tension. Carefully, his hand searched for the dropped knife, ran up against the hilt and closed on it.

In their troubled sleep the twins moaned. Celegorm felt the tracks of tears flow hot down his cheeks.

 _Celegorm !_ Finrod. _I am coming. Daeron is leading me. Thou art on an island._

For a long moment Celegorm could not reply.

_They're are with me, asleep._

A pause, then the tone filled with compassion, and Celegorm knew it was not for him.  
 _So they lay with Daeron. Do not kill them._

_It is they who wish to kill me._

_No, cousin. They wish to kill the monster they made of thee in their minds. And he is not there. **Is he?**_

Celegorm's fingers relaxed on the knife-hilt and he whispered aloud. “No.”

He drank of the voices, the souls that sounded in his mind, absorbed them into his own damaged spirit. Damaged, but not as damaged as the two who lay in his arms.

~~~

Daeron took his turn at the oars. Before them, the fog coiled on the water like smoke. They moved in a world of blotted silence.

“It is a drug. The _shamans_ of the plains-people use it to walk between worlds, as they call it. It has a similar effect upon Elves. They, the twins use it sometimes. At the solstices, and sometimes to forget...”

Finrod looked into the austere beauty of Daeron's face. “So they will sleep now?”

“Yes.”

“Can we get there before they wake?”

“I do not know, truly. The drug takes longer to dissipate in Men, but it's effects can be more severe in Elves. One of the Men told me he believed it was because our dreams and waking lives, our memories, are so acute. He saw it as a curse.”

“And what will they do if we do not?” Finrod asked.

“I think they will kill him – and then themselves.” Daeron's musical voice was like the fall of dark rain. “I know them better than any-one, and love them more than I have loved any-one. They think they can banish their demon by making him helpless, making him fear, making him suffer. And they cannot. When they realize that, they will see only death. They came to me broken. They have always been broken.”

Somewhere in the distance, a scream sounded. It was impossible to gauge how far away the source was; the fog distorted sound. Both stiffened, until Finrod spoke, his voice rich with complicated pity:  
“He says they are with him. Asleep.”  
He thought Daeron looked surprised.

“They come to me...then sleep. Is he...dying?”

Finrod murmured: “His soul is outraged, but he will live. He _can_ live. I think he weeps.”

Daeron said nothing.

“He would have been terrifying that day,” Finrod whispered. “He, all of them, my dear, damnéd cousins. But he did not touch them.”

“No. Another did, a servant. He told them what would happen to them and then left them to die.”

“Saewon.” Finrod's voice hardened. His eyes flared into blue jewels. “He delighted in cruelty.”

~~~

He had never forgiven Celegorm. First for seeing him only as a servant and, long after, when all souls penitent or no were released, for turning him away.

Saewon had served Celegorm since his youth in Valinor. The desire had become hate before the Exile, yet he could not walk away and find another lord. The magnetism of the Fëanorions' was potent. Celegorm, with his love of jewelry, his flashing temper and energy, so strangely at variance to his languid elegance, was as a poison in Saewon's veins. One day, when Celegorm was relaxed and sleek after a long hunt, Saewon had touched him with deliberate intimacy. The brilliant silver-black eyes had haughtily and unequivocally scorned him. Celegorm had not said a word, his look had carried the power of a backhanded blow.

In New Cuiviénen, Saewon had taken to following his former lord. A skilled hunter himself, he knew how to be invisible and silent. At first, he told himself that he wished to simply talk to Celegorm, but even when the opportunity arose, he did not take it. He trailed, watching hating. He believed Celegorm saw him and ignored him. The thought ate into him like etching acid.

He watched as Alagarus and Bellaras were felled by arrows and, using all his stealth, crept closer, listening, wriggling through dead leaves like a snake. He saw Celegorm, unconcious, being borne away through the trees by the strange hunters. And like Celegorm, he knew who they were.

It was hard for him not to laugh, but he stifled it. He followed to the banks of Gaear Gwathluin, and saw the twins lay Celegorm in a boat. There were always a few moored here, for those who wished to explore the nearer islands. Saewon waited.

He thought he had lost them, because he could not chance their seeing him on the open water, and waited until they were out of sight, but his keen senses served him as he neared one of the larger wooded islands. He smelled woodsmoke, heard faint voices.

His caution, he realized, was unnecessary. The mongrel twins were far too intent upon their captive to see anything else. Crouching in the fog, he saw what they did and a knot of arousal twisted in his belly and hardened him. The pride and arrogance of Celegorm Fëanorion was brought down in blood and rape and pain. As they took him, Saewon unloosed his breeches and brought himself to orgasm. Ah, those twins; Celegorm must rue now that he had not given specific orders to kill them. Inwardly, he smiled, for he would have enjoyed them, so young, so afraid. They would not be so hard to kill even now; they were unwary, and he knew they were drugged or drunk.

When they curled down, one each side of Celegorm, Saewon frowned. Drunk, drugged and mad, but this was a gift given into his hands. He already knew what he would do. A knife in each of them and then he would _rescue_ Celegorm. Of course, the Fëanorion might die, and if he were already on that slow journey, Saewon would pleasure himself first, but he was not sure what Glorfindel, as a Power could do. He might be able to prevent death, in which case, Saewon would be a hero, and Celegorm would owe him a great debt. This time, the Fëanorion would not deny him...

He secured his breeches and slipped out his knives, then rose.

Celegorm closed his eyes. The twins breath was gentle against his skin. At times they whispered, moved their hands seeking him or one another.

_Oh, Eru._

He pulled the knife from the turf. It would be easy to kill them now, and he thought that they knew it, and more terribly, that they wanted it.

His soul was afire with guilt and pity, and the pain of rape. It was wrenching against his determination to live, held back by the hands of those who loved him. If his spirit had been flesh, it would be peeling itself from his body. He bit back a curse and opened his eyes.  
And saw a figure walk into the clearing. In the glow of the fire, he saw who it was, saw the knife-blades, the anticipation and odd satisfaction in the face.  
In one smooth movement Celegorm slid the dagger under the edge of the pelts and curled his fingers about it. He blocked out the mind-voices. Distraction now could be fatal.

Celegorm believed that every-one carried darkness within them, some more than others, and even in Valinor Saewon had been secretive and sullen. In Beleriand that dark flower had blossomed. Celegorm was not afraid of him; he demanded loyalty from his servants and at times, a lack of conscience. There was little room for conscience anyway in a world where death could come swiftly and the Oath lay on them like the weight of a mountain. There were rumors of what Saewon did and Celegorm ignored them, for the man had been shown how far he might go in Tirion. Yet still the dark eyes followed him as if nailed. And it was not hard to know his thoughts.  
It was not hard now.

He came closer, very slowly. Celegorm watched him unblinkingly, saw the smile.  
Closer.  
He looked down at the interlocked bodies, and Celegorm saw the hard bulge in his breeches.

 _No wonder Maedhros slew thee,_ he thought within a wall of privacy.

“Closer,” he mouthed.

And then he felt the twins wake, their hunters senses alerted even through drugged sleep. They held themselves completely still for a moment. Long lashes brushed his throat.

Saewon set one foot between Celegorm's parted legs, looming over them.

_He need not have done that. He is showing his dominance over me..._

The twins bodies froze against his. He felt terror – the terror of two children threatened by unspeakable acts – burst in them as they recognized Saewon.  
Who raised his knives. The steel and his teeth shone.

“Thou shouldst have ordered me to kill them in Doriath, _my lord,_ ” he whispered.

And Celegorm pulled the dagger from the pelts and drove it into Saewon's groin. ~

~~~


	46. ~ Fires in the Night ~

  
~ “Thou wert there, when Fëanor was slain.” Glorfindel's voice was cold. “And at Gondolin.”

“I was.” And, “He wounded me.”

“And thou didst relish death and destruction.” Glorfindel set the words down implacably as stone tiles on the ground between them.

“Yes.” Very soft.

 _Didst thou know him?_ Glorfindel asked Vanimórë.

 _They all looked much the same to me,_ came the reply. _But yes, I know whom he is. He was one of Morgoth's door-wards. And Gothmog's...playmate._

Glorfindel rose, and the Balrog watched him. He could see the power, the force of him, leashed, yet straining. He had expected death. He still expected it.

“Thou hast given me back my name.”

“ _I_ merely saw thy name in thee. One of thy names.”

“We were told that we would follow Melkor into the Void,” Coldagnir said haltingly. “There is no light there.”

“It was true, once.” Glorfindel spoke without looking at him. Then he said, “Tell me.”

Coldagnir was silent for a long moment.

“I...wanted to be free,” he said at last. “On the world. It was so beautiful in the vision our father showed us.”

 _Our father,_ Glorfindel thought. Abruptly, he lifted the Maia into his arms, and, as if holding a child, he jumped the gorge and walked down toward the horses.

“Legolas,” he said. “Let us have wine. Give me my cloak and pack please.”

~~~

“Melkor promised freedom. And then we found it was slavery. We learned pain. And we learned to love violence, and the fear of others.”

But they feared also, Coldagnir said. They feared Melkor and when the Noldor came across the sea they grew to fear them and their allies, Men.

“He was like us, Fëanor. Almost. Or perhaps we were almost like him.”

Glorfindel nodded. Nearby, Legolas stood ready to draw his knives, alert and wary as a hill-fox.

“There is something terrifying in him. Morgoth knew it. And the jewels Morgoth wore...” He stopped, then whispered into the wind, “Their creator's fire was in them. They showed us how far we had fallen. I came to hate them.” He flinched as Glorfindel bathed his wounds ungently and with great thoroughness. They had bought medicaments on the journey although, Legolas thought bemusedly, none of them had expected to use them on the _Balrog._

~~~

Blood soaked the doeskin breeches to ink-black as Saewon staggered back, his mouth open in a soundless scream.  
Eluréd and Elurín unfurled like winter flowers and Celegorm came to his feet unsteadily, choking down the pain of his maltreated body. Saewon lurched forward, the great vein pumping out blood. He looked down at the wound, then back up, eyes wide. The knives fell from his hands as he tried to stanch it.

“Thou art dying,” Celegorm told him flatly. “And may Irmo hold thee long.”

“I wanted _thee ! Arrogant...!_ I followed...orders...”With a last flash of malice, he looked at the twins and hissed, “I should have...had the mongrels then !”

Celegorm backhanded him across the face and Saewon fell back, staring up into the fog.

The twins stepped cautiously to his side. Blood lapped at their bare feet as they picked up the dropped knives and gazed into one anothers eyes, a deep, private look.  
Celegorm fought the weariness that dragged at him. He felt as if he were trying to pull himself from liquid mud, and remembered the fusty drone of Manwë and Námo's song. He saw the blades flare red in the misty light and knew what they were going to do, knew exactly...

“ _No !_ ” The snap flared up from his inner battle. Then, “Please.”

They rose and moved toward him as if drawn by an unseen thread. And Celegorm thought: _Now it comes..._

“Art thou dying?” One of them, Eluréd he thought, tilted his head.

Celegorm began to say: “No,” but his knees gave way. The sensation was dislocating. For a moment he _saw_ himself fall onto the blood-soaked ground, and knew if he released his grip upon his body now he would die.

 _It is Námo !_ rapped the voice he recognized as Gorthaurion's. No other mind-voice save those his family and Glorfindel was so utterly clear.  
 _Fight ! Thou hast much to live for._

There was a time of darkness, struggle, screaming defiance, and then he felt his heart give a great jolt in his chest, heard himself gasp. Voices swelled in his ears and hands drifted over him.

“It is not finished...! ”

“ _Please !_ ”

The twins knelt each side, arms braced behind him as their free hands roamed his breast and left scarlet smears. Their lips rested on his, side by side.

“It will never be finished if...”

“I will not die,” he said through the return of pain and pity.

A voice said, so very gently: “Eluréd. Elurín.”

They lifted their heads. Celegorm recognized the man who came toward them. He had listened to his music long ago, listened to Maglor and Daeron play together. The famed minstrel of Doriath reached out his hands and the twins rose, drawing Celegorm up with them. Every movement caused him pain and he wished he could lie and sleep on the cold ground, but he knew he would never wake again.

“Come to me,” Daeron said tenderly, and there was such profound love in his face that Celegorm's heart clenched. “Thou didst make a vow to be in Dor Calen for the Solstice.”

They stepped toward him, wild-white and streaked with blood. Celegorm heard the hard, muffled sobs break from them as they fell against the minstrel's chest. Daeron lead them away from the blood and sank down with his back against a tree.

Celegorm released his pent breath and took an unsteady step back. He came up against a hard body. On reflex, he spun – into Finrod's arms.

“Well met, cousin.” Finrod's voice was flat as a wall.

~~~

Sparks whirled up into the mist.

Celegorm watched as Finrod knelt beside the twins. They clung to Daeron as if he were a father, a lover, an anchor that moored the ships of their souls. Their heads rested on his breast and their eyes were hazy, half-asleep. They looked young, vulnerable as the children left to die in the winter forest of Doriath. Finrod, after saying something softly to Daeron, came to his feet and turned. His face was serene, exquisite – and snow-cold. For a moment, Celegorm almost forgot his pain in simply looking at his cousin's beauty. Then Finrod strode across to him. He struck Celegorm across the cheek, then jerked him into a hard, furious kiss.

“Look at me!” Finrod's honeyed voice shook into rage. The blood-smeared hands that gripped Celegorm's shoulders were as powerful as vises.  
“How apt to see thee again amidst blood and slaughter.”

“And I love thee also!”

“Traitor !” Finrod kissed him again, longer, harder, just as furiously.

“ _Coward !_ ” Celegorm's soul drowned in scalding honey. “Not in battle! Not when thou didst face Sauron, but unto thine own self!”

Finrod lifted his fingers deliberately. Something blazed briefly in his face before his will controlled it and the lovely mask settled back.

“No, _thou_ wilt not fade.” He spoke contemptuously. “And I am glad of it. I came here to see thee penitent. And I _will_ see it.”

“I saw thy song-duel with the Valar!”

“And what of it?” Finrod challenged.

“Thou didst say that Beren's love for Lúthien was no greater than thine for me. A love which thou didst set aside as if it were _nothing!_ ”

“I also told Ingwë that there was murder in my heart for thee!” He flung out a hand. “We have to go. Tell thy brothers to stop searching. _They_ will not be ready to leave for some time.”

Celegorm looked past him to Daeron.  
“What will happen to them?”

“I do not know. Raping thee did not help them. They knew killing thee would not.”

Their twins' lashes fluttered. Celegorm found himself saying brokenly: “I am sorry.”

He saw Finrod turn his head in surprise as he limped to where they lay. He found an arm supporting him as very carefully he touched the crowns of their heads. They were still under his hand as if tensing against a blow, as they had been when Saewon stood over them ready to slaughter.

“Canst thou help them?” he asked Daeron, whose eyes were fast on him.

“I do not know that, either.”

Eluréd whispered. “Thou didst not hurt us.”

Celegorm shook his head. Speech was too difficult.

“Then we are not free of thee.”

Daeron closed his eyes in acute pain. His arms tightened around them.

Finrod moved away and returned with Daeron's cloak and pack. He spread the thick wool over them and the twins nestled under it like children on a cold night.

“I will find Saewon's boat,” he said. “He may have brought something. We will ensure that no-one comes here, and when they are recovered, thou may go.”

Daeron raised his brows at Celegorm, who said wearily: “My brothers do not even know I am on an island. Saewon must have followed me. He has been doing so since we came here.” He stopped, thinking of his dead servants. Every path here lead to grief.

“There is mead here,” Daeron said after a long silence. “Untainted. Drink.”

~~~

Finrod walked swiftly, his mind a cauldron that threw up burning emotions. He had thought he knew what he would do when he reached the haven and now...? Celegorm's ordeal had not ameliorated his own long-nurtured rage at his cousin, nor turned it upon the twins. He could abhor the act but on seeing them, and feeling the pity and compunction in Celegorm, he could not hate them.  
The kisses he had thrown on his cousin were blows against Námo he told himself, and that was mostly the truth. The erstwhile Doomsman of the Valar might have less power now, but he had long dealt with the souls of the Elves and knew how to encourage the separation of body and soul in such cases where the fëa was outraged. The love pouring into Celegorm from his brothers and father had given him strength, yet Finrod had felt the touch of Námo like a the cloying residue left when a flood recedes, and _he would not let Celegorm die._ The Timeless Halls were Irmo's province now and there was no Void waiting for the dead, but Finrod wanted his cousin alive in the world.

The pines smoked with fog. Here, the trees came down to the water's edge and he was almost at the strip of shore before he saw it. The boat was drawn up on the strip of shingle and he hefted the pack on his shoulders.

_Glorfindel?_

_I know._

Only that. It said everything.

Celegorm was leaning against a tree and looked up as Finrod returned. There was deep weariness underlying the skin of his face like a shadow.

Finrod opened the pack and untied Saewon's rolled-up cloak, draping it around his cousin, then he looked at the dead body in it's pool of congealing blood.

_Kinslaughter. Again._

“I will deal with it,” Daeron murmured, as if he read Finrod's thoughts. “When they wake, they will be confused. They need to know he is dead. But I will not leave his body to the wilds, after.”

“His family will have to know,” Celegorm said. “But not yet.” He looked around. “I need my clothes. I will not meet my brothers naked.”

After a short search the clothes were found neatly bundled near the twins packs. Then Finrod lead his cousin to where he had left the boat. The fire vanished behind the pines.

~~~

Celegorm did not speak. He shrugged off the cloak and walked into the icy water, scrubbing at his hair and body with hisses of pain. There was no drying sheet, and Finrod unlaced his shirt, wordlessly offering it. He understood the need for cleansing, for Celegorm to present a face to his brothers and his men that they would recognize. He did not even offer to help his cousin in the difficult task of pulling on his breeches. It was a matter of salvaging some pride and dignity. Once in the boat, he sat on the thwart straight as a sword, eyes closed. Finrod watched him as he rowed, the hard face still holding the arrogant, voluptuous beauty that had always intoxicated his senses. He wanted to take Celegorm in his arms, heal the harm done to him, then throw him over the side, hold his head under the water and row away.

~~~

“Finrod is with him.” Maglor drew rein suddenly and Tindómion came alongside him.

“Where is he?”

“I do not know. He said he will see us at the encampment.”

“ _Adar...”_

“He will not die,” Maglor challenged.

“No.” Tindómion reached across the space and gripped his father's wrist. He had no great love for Celegorm, but he had seen for himself the interlocking volatile love the seven sons of Fëanor had for one another, and that it was a shield-wall not easily breached. Save for his father and Fëanor himself, Maedhros was the only one whom had wholeheartedly welcomed him. He did know however, that Maglor was remembering his own torments in Barad-dûr. His face was white and haunted.

“How did Finrod find him?” he wondered.

“Perhaps Glorfindel directed him. Perhaps this is why he wanted Finrod to come.”

“Glorfindel would not sit by and know some-one was being assaulted and do nothing,” Tindómion protested more harshly than he had intended. He had his own doubts.

“He loves his brother,” Maglor stated. “As I do mine, for all his faults.” He stared into the blotted darkness. “Come. He will need to be tended to when he arrives.”

“I have asked mother to put some medicaments together,” Tindómion told him. “There are not enough women in the House of Fëanor, _adar._ Save for Elrond, they are the most skilled of healers.”

“I know. I wish our mother were here. But,” Maglor shrugged. “There will be no reconciliation.” He urged his horse back in the direction they had come.

~~~

“Gothmog was the mightiest of us,” Coldagnir said. “What he wanted, he took, if it did not run against the will of Melkor. There was he and one called...” he groped for the words. “Daachas. They were my senior officers. Gothmog was the highest, and Daachas commander under him. Thou didst slay him, lord.”

Glorfindel stared at him.

 _This one and the one he calls Daachas were both guards before the throne-hall when I entered Angband._ Vanimórë's voice was limned with fascination.

They had moved lower down the pass to a group of trees where the horses had sought shelter. There was no sign of Fëanor or Fingon, and their mounts were gone but Ecthelion was there, having gathered wood for a fire. The wind from the high peaks slapped the flames down in bitter, vicious little bursts.  
Ecthelion knew Glorfindel very well; he had worked alongside him as a Lieutenant throughout Gondolin's existence, and been his lover and friend for longer still, yet he had been shocked when Glorfindel appeared with the Maia. Now he stood with one hand on his sword hilt and his stance unconsciously primed for battle.

But the being who sat huddled beside the small fire was almost impossible to equate with the demons the Gondolindrim had fought. He looked like a man, his wounds clearly hurt him and he spoke slowly, as one whom understood Sindarin but had never used it in daily speech. There was an underused huskiness to his voice as if speech itself were almost forgotten.

 _They were all slaves, in truth,_ Vanimórë mused.

“I was as thou seest now when I took form.” Coldagnir spread his long fingers before the fire. “I did not come into Arda with Melkor in the beginning, but before Time, Gothmog was ever close to me in spirit, like a brother, so I thought, although we had no words to describe it then.” He looked up and the light burned his eyes to discs of scoured bronze. “He was too close sometimes. I sought to elude him, yet I believed I loved him as the Ainur loved one another.”  
“When the Valar dwelt upon Almaren and Arda was beautiful, I yearned for it. And Gothmog's spirit called to mine, telling me of the Earth's glories. And so...I came to Arda, but to Utumno...” He faltered. “Angband was an outpost by comparison to the Underworld. And I...began to change. Melkor...no-one could resist him. I thought my body would be a source of pleasure and joy.”

The first sensations had been of wonder, boundless energy. Then Gothmog had come to him, dark and terrible and _changed,_ and taught him pain.

He did not speak of his own transformation to a spirit of dark fire, of the feasts of bloody bones, of how he had come to revel in battle and slaughter and the fear and pain of others, how the screams of the tormented in Angband had become music. And his own screams had been music to Gothmog and to Daachas. Melkor's servants all emulated their master. All but one, who now watched from far away. The Maia knew him, had been one of those who trained him, watched Melkor rape him in the throne hall, seen him drag his damaged body away. They had laughed, been aroused by it. Gothmog had taken him thus after, and Melkor had enjoyed that, also. But there had been something in that son of Sauron that was unbreakable; he had been stronger than any in Angband, Coldagnir thought.

He realized he was still afraid. The Elves eyes were like sun-scorched ice.

“We did not expect the Children would fight so resolutely,” he said through a dry throat. “The Great Victory was dear-bought and Gondolin...but Melkor did not care how many he lost. There were always more, and we lived to serve him. We were his.” With some care, he came to his feet and looked at Ecthelion, who stared back.

“Thou art he who slew Gothmog.”

“Yes.”

“And thou didst slay Daachas.” He turned his head to Glorfindel. “After Gondolin, we were...intoxicated with victory. I celebrated Gothmog's death and that of Daachas, but I hated thee, Elves and Men...soul-fire so bright. I wanted it gone from the world. I thought that there might be freedom, then...For a while.”

The fire flattened to embers in a blast of snow-scented wind.

“I wanted to remember what I was, before I served Melkor,” he whispered and raised his hand. The fire burst upward, turning his hair to running flame in the night, and his tears to molten rivers.

“I wanted to remember... _myself..._ ” ~

~~~


	47. ~ Betrayal Lies Between Us ~

  
~ Finrod jumped from the boat as he felt the keel grate against shingle, and reached out a hand. Ignoring the offer, Celegorm rose stiffly and climbed out. As he hissed pain through clenched teeth, Finrod said, “Choke on thy damned pride, then. There was a time thou didst accept aid from me with gratitude.”  
He lifted a silver-mounted horn to his lips.

“Why didst thou come?” Celegorm snarled.

“I would not risk others taking what is mine.”

“ _Thine?_ ”

Finrod paused at the word, unraveling the raw emotions within it and looked across at his cousin, disdainful beauty glowing vivid through the marks of ill-use. _Use him how thou wilt,_ he thought, knowing that no emotion showed on his face and wishing none were in his heart. _He will not be broken._

“Thy life.” His voice was silk and cream. “Thou didst betray me. It is for _me_ to decide how to deal with thee, my cousin, my betrayer.” And he blew the notes that signaled the end of a successful hunt.

Into the echo of the fading call, Celegorm hissed: “Was my love, was our kinship, worth _so much less_ than a Man thou hadst never seen before? Was it worth thy death, _Findaráto?_ ”

“Was thine own oath worth anything?” Finrod smashed the question back. Their gazes locked.

“Our oath was sworn in grief and through love ! Was thine?” Celegorm pursued like the hunter he was, but Finrod was no-one's prey.

“An oath can be made for the most base of reasons and it still binds the one who swears it.”

“There was _no_ reason for thee to swear an oath to the House of Beör ! Beren's sire aided thee, as allies are honor-bound to aid one another. Would thou not have done the same for him?” Celegorm limped forward and seized Finrod's arm. “I _know thee,_ always overgenerous, seeking to be a flower of chivalry because thy father _expected_ it of thee after Glorfindel's defection ! Thou didst make my love of none account and Beren's love for Lúthien of Doriath something fated and mighty. It would have been _nothing_ had it not been for thee ! Beren would have died either in Angband or ere he ever reached there !”

Finrod jerked from his grip and his fist caught Celegorm across the jaw.

“They raised a mound for thee,” Celegorm turned his head back. “They wept for thee and then went on their way and when Curufin and I came upon them they were laughing in the joy of their love as if thou didst not lie broken and dead under the earth. All Lúthien cared for was Beren and he was besotted by her !” He dashed blood from his lips and went on with the unstoppable intensity of a forest fire, “There was healing in her but none to spare for one who needed it. Those two looked at one another alone. They did not deserve thine aid ! They did not deserve thou shouldst die for their love ! All their quest ultimately did was give a Silmaril into the hands of the damned Valar, who hated us !”

“I was bound to the House of Beör from when first I came upon them wandering into Beleriand. And it is almost amusing to hear _thee_ prate of _selfishness !_ ”  
Finrod looked gorgeous even in disarray. He wore his mask of composure like a potter's glaze and Celegorm had rarely seen it crack. He had wondered at times if there were truly nothing under it but serenity, but had come to know better; Finrod simply hid his passions more successfully than any of the volatile house of Finwë and had also learned to control them. But the mask was cracking now, anger venting up to flame in the ice-blue eyes.

“Thou wert bound to me long before the House of Beör ! Thou didst deny it in Valinor and in Nargothrond, but it matters nothing. _I bound thee to me in Tirion !_ ”

Finrod gazed at Celegorm, the sultry curve of his mouth begging to be kissed, swollen and bloody though it was. And it was true. What he said was true. From the day he had come of age, that first uncousinly kiss had fettered them together.

“Deny it, then !”

“I deny nothing. I forget nothing.” Finrod took a hammer to his bitterness and beat it down so that his voice became smooth cold steel. “I do not forget leaving Nargothrond as little more than a beggar. I do not forget Sauron in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. I do not forget dying. But more than all, _coz,_ I do not forget how it felt for the one I loved to betray me.”

He turned away at the sound of approaching hooves and Celegorm choked on fury and grief.

~~~

Finrod's lord's were the first to reach them. They had followed him and remained nearby, obeying his order that none follow him, although with great reluctance.

“I will not be carried,” Celegorm said as a hastily-made litter was brought forward.

“It is leagues to the encampment, and thou canst not walk,” Finrod snapped. _Get on the litter before I knock thee out._

Celegorm glared at him and saw no concern in his eyes, only a promise. Orodreth was not here, presumably he was at the camp, but beautiful Aegnor had come to his brother's shoulder and emanated threat.  
His thoughts raged and sought utterance in violence or words, and he felt his brothers concern swathe him like a thick blanket.

 _Father...?_

Fëanor clearly sifted enough of his turmoil to understand, and his reaction could almost be felt as a physical push. Tired and in pain Celegorm lowered himself, and felt a woolen cloak dropped over him. He closed his eyes from shame that he knew was misplaced but raw nevertheless and wrapped both the cloak and the love of his family around him. Both were warm and comforting. As the litter was lifted he thought of the words that passed between he and Daeron when Finrod had gone to find Saewon's boat.

~~~

 _“How can it be finished for them? How can their pain be healed?”_

 _“I do not think it can ever be,” Daeron had replied. “They are as they are. And as they are I love them and grieve for them.”_

 _“What can I do?”_

 _At that, Daeron had given him a strange, bitter smile._

 _“If thou wouldst know that, come to Dor Calen where we dwell, for the longest night. There may not be healing, but there may be something to learn, for thee and for them.”_

~~~

Celegorm woke not knowing he had slept. He had been afraid to sleep, lest Námo renew the assault on his soul, but even as he strove to remain conscious, slumber had laid its beguiling hand upon him. He remembered Maglor telling him of how long and deeply he had slept after his torture in Mordor and before that, he and his brothers had sat beside a sleeping Maedhros after his rescue from Thangorodrim.

Voices swelled in his ears and the flare of torchlight across his eyes made him blink. He heard Maedhros saying, “Glorfindel did not know.”

“How could he not?” Curufin demanded.

“His mind was not upon us,” Maglor said. “Or dost thou not remember where he went?”

Curufin cursed. “And how didst _thou_ find him?”

Finrod's voice said calmly, “I was merely fortunate.”

“And not in time to save him!”

“Be _quiet!_ ” Maedhros rapped out. “Finrod, Glorfindel did not tell thee?”

“No, cousin. I called to him but all his attention was elsewhither.”

“Where didst thou find him?” Curufin demanded.

“It does not matter,” Celegorm said.

The litter halted as he spoke and a ring of faces surrounded him, bright and concerned. He gripped the hands outstretched to his. Maedhros bent close, eyes searching, and then looked up at Maglor, who gave a bare nod.

“We are there.” Maedhros kissed him and there were more torches, more voices. They moved through tent flaps and hands lifted him onto his bed. Incense burned sweetly and the lamplight was gentle. Some-one let the inner curtains drop and his brothers knelt about him.

“Thou art going to live,” Maedhros told him, and Celegorm could not suppress a smile, for he had spoken those words to his eldest brother in the pavilion beside Lake Mithrim.

“Yes,” he promised, and saw relief melt the hard concern of Maedhros' face.

“Where are they?” Curufin asked, all aflame to seek vengeance. And would he himself not have been? Celegorm thought. To think of those wild, damaged twins was difficult; it required that he allow that waiting darkness to rise up and lap at his resolution.

Maglor tendered a cup toward him. It was water and he drank it thirstily, for whatever drug had been in the mead had left his mouth dry and bitter.

“We will track them down,” Curufin continued, his eyes flashing around his brothers. “Mongrel kin of...”

“ _No._ ” The weight in that one word brought down a startled silence.

“Thou wilt not touch them. I forbid it.”

“Thou...art thou _crazed?_ ”

“Finrod said they drugged thee,” Caranthir said. “Thou dost not know what...”

“ _I know what I am saying !_ ” he cried, slapping them into muteness once more. Pain throbbed in him and scored his voice. “They are mad. They were told I would come and rape and kill them.”

Maedhros said: “Saewon told them that.”

“Thou wert right to kill him, after I died. Maglor?”

“Yes?”

“Thou hast known madness.”

“Yes. Yes, my dear.”

“Then perhaps thou canst understand.”

Maglor closed his eyes over pain. “I think I can. I wish we could have found them.”

“No-one will search for them this time.”

“Father will never agree to that,” Caranthir said.

Celegorm lay back. “I will have to make him understand. And now...” He set his teeth. “If there is anything to ease me...?”

~~~

“I do not see why thou dost want to help them.”

“My son asked me to,” Fanari said. “What wouldst thou have done?”

“Nothing.”

“Truly? Once perhaps, but now?”

“I have no love for the Fëanorions' !” Rosriel snapped. “Even now, when there is no doom on them, they must needs cause chaos. Fëanor has gone to witness Glorfindel slay a Balrog, and one of his sons is kidnapped.”

“There is something strange there, dost thou not think?” Fanari examined a pot of salve, refusing to be drawn. “I mean, with Glorfindel.”

“He did slay it?” Anxiety crept into the other woman's voice.

“I only know that all are safe and returning. Istelion told me.”

Rosriel was silent for a moment, prowling the tent with a hush of skirts, hands clasped under her chin. Then abruptly, she said: “Thou art not a healer.”

“I was never trained in the art,” Fanari agreed. “But I can make lotions and salves, and I know the properties of plants. I am as much a healer as any mother whose son always wanted to be a warrior.” And she smiled.

“Mother?” Tindómion stepped from her memory as the young boy and into the tent as a man, with a flash of silver eyes and gleam of fog-damp bronze hair. He inclined his head to Rosriel.

“If he is not badly hurt within, this should be all that is needed.” She handed him the bag.

“I do not think he is.”

“Have the House of Fëanor no Healers?” Rosriel asked.

“I asked that my mother prepare some medicaments.” Tindómion was coldly courteous. “And I am of the House of Fëanor.” He went out quickly and she heard the murmur of his voice speaking to Gil-galad as they strode away.

“Thou wouldst not turn away from some-one in pain,” Fanari said.

“But I did, did I not?” Rosriel challenged. “And I desired worse than pain!”

“However Gil-galad was conceived, I think thou wouldst have loved him had it not been for Elbereth.”

There was a thicket of thorns between these two, through which they had to walk with extreme care. But that barrier lay between every-one and Rosriel save those whom had supported her and they were now under guard. As she refused to go about the camp, yet seemed not to want to be alone or with her silent maids, she came into contact with Fanari every day. Perhaps it was because of all those here, she knew Fanari the best, even if their closeness had been that of bitter enemies.

“What if the Balrog had come?” Fanari asked now. “I believe it would have been slain, but it might have caused carnage first. Wouldst thou have refused to help the wounded?”

Rosriel shrugged, then said in a toneless voice: “Gil-galad used to have foreshadowings of his death when he was a child, sometimes. He never told thy son, did he?”

“No.”

“I used to look in his chambers sometimes...and see him crying. Part of me wanted to go to him and comfort me, the other part just...watched.”

Fanari thought of the beautiful child seeking comfort and her fingers turned into claws, but she knew why Rosriel goaded her. When Elbereth rode her soul she had not cared if she were hated. Now she sought hatred, believing she deserved it. Fanari fought against obliging her, as she believed Elbereth deserved it, not Rosriel. But one looked at Rosriel and recognized her, and she was within reach while Elbereth was not. It was an exercise in willpower not to physically hurt her.

“Gil-galad must have worried when Fingon went with Glorfindel,” she said, knowing that this would provoke a reaction.

“Undoubtedly.”

“I was worried myself, for all of them.”

“I am surprised,” Rosriel remarked. “What could harm Glorfindel now?”

“I saw him die. And I know how the others died. Legolas saw a Balrog in Moria. He has said that no tale of the Elder Days can convey the terror of one. That is true. I know what Glorfindel is, and the others are mighty, but I have seen Balrogs, I saw Glorfindel duel and fall – ” Fanari allowed the fear that all had felt and none would reveal to break through into her voice. “Gil-galad knows how his father died. He saw it, in prison of Night. And what if the Valar had found some other way of interfering? Istelion said that Sauron's son was watching, in case help was needed. That was why he did not aid Celegorm.”

Rosriel's mind took her back with brutal clarity to a sultry day in Eglarest; the day Fingon had died. Gil-galad had felt it. He had screamed as one mortally wounded, and she had come to see him on his knees, his face savaged by pain and tears, his lips bitten bloody, hands in his hair.

And she had slapped him.

 _“Ereinion!”_

 _“He is dead!”_

 _“Whom?”_

 _“Adar!” he had screamed as he came to his feet. “Dost thou not know? Canst thou not feel? My father is dead!”_

She pulled the hood close about her face, just another shrouded figure in the misty mill of the great camp. Tindómion and Gil-galad had gone swiftly, probably at a run, and she followed, passing through the open space that served as a demarcation line between the folk of Fingolfin and Fëanor. Already, wide paved tracks had been laid to avoid a morass of mud, and lamps had been raised at intervals, but now they shone dim in the fog that poured from the great lake.

Fëanor's encampment was ablaze, voices called out and riders surged past, returning now that Celegorm had been found. Some-one reined his sweating beast aside with an impatient oath as Rosriel ducked across his path.

“Careful, lady.” A hand drew her back and her whole body stiffened as she recognized the voice.

“Madam?” Tindómion said in chill surprise.

“Is my...is Gil-galad not with thee?” She could not control the light sting to the words, but it was birthed from a knot of nerves rather than of malice.

“He follows.”

“I wish to see him.”

Tindómion looked down at her. “Why?”

She lifted her chin haughtily, but the tactic had never worked in Lindon and did not now. With something of a shock, Rosriel realized that this ill-gotten Fëanorion was not and never had been churlish toward her. What he had been and still was, was fiercely protective of Gil-galad.

“He will know his father is returning,” she stated, and added, “Unharmed.”

“Yes.”

She said nothing else, but looked at him and saw something in the silver eyes open to understanding. He had not removed his hand from her arm but his grip, though firm, was not cruel. He turned as if hearing something she could not and the fog swirled and parted. The muffled beam of a lamp sparkled over a tall figure, who said, “Istelion, I think we should...” Then Gil-galad reached them and stared at his mother.

Now that it had come to this, what could she say?  
“I am glad that Fingon is unhurt.” How cold the words sounded. “I am sure thou wert concerned.”

Gil-galad did not answer for a moment, and Rosriel knew that he too was remembering Eglarest.

“I was,” he murmured.

And at last she felt his pain, as she never had before. Her throat closed on it and she turned away.

“I thank thee,” he said without emotion.

She would have run back down the path had not Tindómion still maintained his hold on her. She tugged violently at her arm. It was like pulling against iron.

“I will escort thee back.” His voice, too, was bleached of expression.

A few steps, and she felt it rise in her and shuddered, battling against the pour of tears; tears for a son who had needed her love so very much, whom she had been unable to love, caged in Elbereth's icy claws. Tindómion stopped and pulled her around, then to her astonishment, and shattering her the more, he kissed her brow and let her go. She was caught fast in Gil-galad's arms and heard him say.

“All is well, _naneth._ ”

~~~

Fëanor rode like a burning lance through the night, his mind locked upon Celegorm's until his responses became clearer, less agonized, until he knew that his son was safe and sleeping. While he begrudged any delay his horse was blowing and he halted, rubbing it down. One of the many streams that fell from the mountains ran nearby and he lead it to drink then sat and ate dried meat and fruit without tasting it.

 _How is he?_ he asked Maedhros.

 _He is resting. We have tended to him. His body will mend._

Fëanor did not doubt that, but he had sensed the dragging despair weighing on Celegorm's mind until his son struggled from it, impelled by guilt and rage and pity. Pity. Fëanor's own complexity allowed him to understand that, but love for his children demanded revenge. He cursed himself for missing the clues in Daeron's words when they had met. They had been there and he, bent on sex, had ignored them.  
Finrod's mind voice had been glass-calm when Fëanor thanked him, but he would not answer any questions. Celegorm's brothers had not been able to find where he had been taken, yet Finrod had. Had Glorfindel told him? Fëanor hated unanswered questions.

 _I will answer them._

Sauron's son. Through the tight fist of rage, curiosity peered, but mistrust and pride held it back.

 _Each person changes what will happen in the future, Fëanor, by the most infinitesimal of their actions..._

 _I am in no mood for philosophy, Gorthaurion!_

 _And yet thou canst understand it. Glorfindel knew that Dior's sons had come to this region, but he could not know what they would do. He trusted Daeron to leash them, for love is a stronger leash than steel._

 _Well, he did **not** leash them ! _ Fëanor burned up.

 _Glorfindel and I,_ Vanimórë continued relentlessly, _do not care to immerse ourselves in the minds of others, or to over-watch any of thee. Thou wouldst resent it for the Valar did thus. Both our minds were fixed upon the Balrog, which we judged a greater threat._

 _It is almost too coincidental, is it not?_

 _Thou knowest it is no coincidence. Manwë or Námo awakened the Balrog, wanting it to cause hurt, and in a sense it did. For all the hate that Glorfindel bears Celegorm and Curufin for their acts in Nargothrond, he would not have been able to live with his conscience had he permitted Celegorm to be raped. He never knew it had happened, neither did I until it was too late._

Fëanor stood up, his eyes blazing in the night.

 _I will find them, Gorthaurion,_ he vowed.

 _No,_ Vanimórë's tone became steel. _Neither of us will permit thee to harm Eluréd and Elurín. And thou wilt find thy son will not, either._

~~~

“Wouldst thou?” Elgalad asked. “Have h-helped him?”

The snow was falling thicker now as they returned to the town.

Dale was built between two long arms of rock which thrust from the mountain of Erebor like the tines of a fork. The lower slopes were dark green with fir, which gave way to heather and bare rock above which ravens wheeled. Erebor and the valley offered some protection from the scythe of the north wind, but broke it into cruel gusts which spun the snow into whorls among the pines. They sang a song of winter as Vanimórë and Elgalad slipped through them.

“Perhaps Celegorm Fëanorion needed to confront what he had done, unwitting, as he needs to confront what he did with calculation to Finrod,” Vanimórë said. “But for all his faults – and he has many, most of us do – he never raped. Yes, I would have intervened.”

“And the twins?”

“They found no healing in raping him. They know they would have found none in killing him.”

“What will h-happen to them?”

Vanimórë drew away cold streaks of the silver hair that the wind had tugged over Elgalad's face.

“I do not know, my dear. Perhaps, as many people do, they will simply continue. Damaged, but alive. At least they have seen one that their minds magnified to a monster is not, but an Elf, capable of being hurt.”

“The Fëanorions?” Elgalad reached up a gloved hand and locked it about Vanimórë's wrist.

“Celegorm himself will prevent any blood-oath against the twins.” He put an arm about Elgalad and drew him along, through the snow toward warmth and light.

~~~

Light. Fire that roared and billowed in defiance of the snow-tainted wind. Coldagnir, whose first name, whose true name had meant _Wild Flame_ felt it beat against his skin. It illuminated those who watched him, and he felt that it was tame to what burned in them.

“What am I?” he asked.

“I know not,” Glorfindel said. “But thou couldst be anything.”

“Is there a place for me in this world?”

“Glorfindel,” Ecthelion said sharply.

“Perhaps.”

“ _Glorfindel,_ ” Ecthelion repeated. “It cannot come with us!”

Legolas did not evince any surprise. He knew his lover too well.

“I am not an _it_...” Coldagnir whispered.

“How couldst thou be trusted?” Ecthelion whirled on him, unafraid. “All thou hast known on Arda is evil!”

“That is why he has to come with us for the moment,” Glorfindel told his friend. “We at least can watch him.” He turned. “And be assured, we will.” Threat surfaced in his voice like a sword lifting from its sheath as he turned to the Balrog. “Thou hast know destruction, and reveled in it. In our new Cuiviénen we are building, making a new life. Creating, not destroying. If thou wouldst come, thou wilt learn to make, not break.”

“Gondolin was beautiful. The Elves were beautiful. And I could not bear to look on beauty any longer,” Coldagnir said as if to himself. “But once... I sang in the Music. I was... _this._ ” He looked at his hands, limned in flame. “I will come, my lord. To learn what I can be.”

~~~

“Finrod.” Fingolfin put out his hands and Finrod walked into a tight embrace. “We are all so very proud of thee. And always were.”

“Uncle.” Finrod kissed him. “I thank thee.”

In the pavilion, Fingolfin dismissed every-one and sat down. He would see Celegorm later. Some things were politic. He listened to what Finrod would tell, knowing that he held back much, filling the gaps with his own knowledge. Finrod, after all, had been welcomed in Doriath, and would have known Daeron. Others guessed too, or would, and Fëanor certainly would when he knew Daeron had come to the encampment. Yet more discord.

“I have a quarrel with Celegorm and Curufin, uncle. I did not come to bring dissension.”

“There is already dissension,” Fingolfin said. “It is very much as it was when we came to Beleriand, save the Fëanor is High King.”

“And thou dost support him. Is it not strange that we can still love those who have done us so much harm.”

An ironic smile tilted one corner of Fingolfin's mouth. “And still hate them.”

“Ah, yes,” Finrod agreed. “And hate them also. Has Fëanor ever asked thy forgiveness?”

“He regrets nothing but that he died. And I truly believe that.”

“I came here to extract a bended-knee apology from Celegorm, to do anything save kill him.”

“I wish thee good fortune,” Fingolfin said dryly. “He will live?”

“He had better,” Finrod's lovely face was hard. ~

~~~


	48. ~ A Storm Is Coming ~

  
~ Fanari looked up as the tent flap opened, but it was her son who entered, not Rosriel.  
  
“She is with Gil,” Tindómion said before she could ask. “What didst thou say to her?”  
  
“I said that Gil-galad would have feared for his father, as we all feared, even knowing what Glorfindel is now, and that the others are not negligible.”  
  
He bent his head in agreement, although his mouth quivered at the words _not negligible._ He thought hers did too. But she was right. The Elves had been afraid. Old fears were not so easily dismissed in this new life.  
  
“Didst thou know it would send her out to him?”  
  
“She is a mother, even if she was never given the chance to be one,” Fanari said. “A mother would go to a son in such a case.”  
  
“She was crying,” he said with a tinge of disbelief.  
  
“She could have loved him well. And I think she will. I am glad he did not turn from her.”  
  
“All those long years,” her son mused. “I was fortunate to have thee. And he needed her.”  
  
“As she needed him.” She kissed his cheek. “ _Rosriel_ needed him, and Elbereth would not permit her. That I cannot forgive. No woman could.”  
  
Rosriel might be a long time, or she might return soon. She had seen her son through the Valie's eyes and detested him, and he had seen Elbereth. Gil-galad did not know his mother, and she knew him only through a distortion of hate. Perhaps they would talk, perhaps they could not. Fanari decided she would wait, and went to Rosriel's tent, telling the women they could leave for the night. Most of them were courting and from long habit, concealed it from their mistress. They were glad to leave their duties, having been sharply reprimanded by Rosriel only hours before.  
  
Fanari fed the braziers, smoothed the coverlets on Rosriel's bed and sat down, listening to the hum of the camp. With Finrod's arrival, Celegorm returned, and the party who had left to find the Balrog safe and on their way back, it hummed like a broken hive.  
  
She had replenished the braziers once when Rosriel entered the pavilion. The hood of her cloak was pushed back and her hair was loose, falling from it in mist-dampened waves.  
Fanari had not feared that she would be permitted to make her way back alone. Gil-galad had no doubt brought her right to the tent. Rosriel looked at her, walked to her bed and sat down. Fanari poured a cup of wine and took it across, waiting patiently until Rosriel took it from her and drank deep.  
  
“The night he was conceived, I knew,” she said as if continuing a conversation. “My marriage was a duty, bearing an heir was a duty. I took no joy in my husbands body nor in my child. I wondered if I could conceive, loathing the marriage-bed as I did. But I did and felt it within me. Didst thou?” She looked up.  
  
“Yes. I knew.”  
  
“Thou didst have less joy in Tindómion's begetting than I did in Gil-galad's.” Rosriel exhaled a hard breath. “What did thy son tell thee?”  
  
Fanari hid a smile at the other woman knowing Tindómion had come to her. “Only that thou didst weep. There is no shame in that.”  
  
“They have placed me in their debt twice.” Rosriel let fall her cloak. “And not one word of reproach from them.”  
  
“They have known enough pain to understand thine. We all have.”  
  
Rosriel passed her fingers over her eyes and said into the screen of her hands: “I did not feel it. I saw it and it did not touch me.” She reached for her emptied cup and Fanari refilled it. “I do not know how to be a mother. I am not even a woman.”  
  
“Thou art a woman who was not allowed to be one.”  
  
The Mother had said she would flower into one, given time, but it might take long.  
  
“Didst thou...” Rosriel's eyes searched the tent as if the words she was reluctant to say hid somewhere in the shadows.  
  
“There was a time,” Fanari said, carefully choosing her own. “When I believed I would never feel the pleasures a woman does.”  
  
“How couldst thou? Thou didst not marry.”  
  
“I was besotted with Maglor from very young. He came to Vinyamar a few times, a very few, during the Long Peace, once he arrived with Maedhros on my begetting day.”  
  
“Fingon was there, no doubt.” But there was no real bite in Rosriel's words. “I never was in love. I never felt that. What then? How couldst thou know that he favoured men?”  
  
“I had foreshadowings about Maglor,” Fanari said. “And Glorfindel warned me, but I already guessed. And I knew then that something terrible awaited him. But that is not what I wish to say. Even knowing I could never have him did not douse the fire of my heart-burnings for him, nor the yearnings of my body. Thou wouldst have known them thyself had it not been for Elbereth's hold on thee.”  
  
Rosriel shifted uncomfortably and a blush mounted her cheeks. It reminded Fanari of herself in Vinyamar, when the fearless, lovely white gowned woman who was afraid of nothing, ashamed of nothing, had come to her room. No _man_ had ever pleasured Fanari Penlodiel; Maglor had taken her in violence and there had been none before him or after, but she knew well the pleasures that a woman could feel.  
  
“Thou canst be a woman and a mother. It is thy birthright.”  
  
“ _How?_ ” Rosriel cried and tears drowned her eyes. “I am an empty vessel in the shape of a woman and I bore a child, thus I am a mother by the deed alone, but I was no mother in my heart.”  
  
“But thy son _has_ his mother now, and empty vessels can be filled.” Fanari smiled and it was the Mother's smile, a woman's ageless, knowing smile.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The twins slept until the dark before dawn, and on waking uncurled themselves and walked directly to the dead body of Saewon. They did not speak. Their faces showed nothing. It seemed as if the last night had drained them of emotion. Daeron lead them away to bathe in the cold water as if they were children, then dried them before the replenished fire. When they were dressed he sent them to the boat.  
  
He had promised the dead man would not be left and so he brought stones from the lake and weighted the body, dragging it out and letting it sink. Soon it would fray into the world, as all Elven corpses did. He could not think of any words to say. Saewon had not loomed as large in the twins minds as Celegorm, but it was he whom had told the terrified children what would happen to them. And Celegorm had killed him...  
  
He found the twins standing silently on the shingle and laid a hand on their shoulders. His touch caused them to stir from their stupor and climb into the boat. Daeron picked up the oars. He believed that Finrod would say nothing of where he had found Celegorm, but he did not know if the Fëanorions' would withhold from hunting those whom had hurt their brother. The small craft had a sail, and he longed for wind, but although the fog had cleared somewhat, the air was still. He braced his back and rowed.  
  
They were always languid after such times, pale heads resting together. The mist lifted as the day advanced, a low, cloudy roof to a world inhabited only by the cry of a waterbird and the creak of the oars in the rowlocks. They had explored most of these isles, plotted the distances between them long ago, and Daeron knew he could reach one large enough to provide tinder and shelter before nightfall. Letting the boat drift for a time, he opened his pack and passed out dried apples and meat. They drank the cold lake water, and after, without a word, Eluréd took the oars, and then Elurín. Their faces were still blank and calm as, just before the early dusk settled, they beached at one of the islands. As the small fire began to whisper of comfort and warmth, they shirred away from their introspection. Daeron did not press them; they would come back to the world in their own time. He did not know if their hate was spent or their fear banished, but he did know that they had found no answers and no healing, for there was neither contrition nor guilt in their voices when they finally spoke.  
  
“He killed him,” Elurín mused, not naming either man. “Why?”  
  
“Why did he not kill _us?_ ” Eluréd asked.  
  
“He regretted Doriath.” Not the attack, Daeron thought, not the shedding of blood, but what these two had suffered through the ages because of him.  
  
Eluréd stared into the weaving flames.  
“He was beautiful,” he said, as if lamenting it. All he and his brother had seen as children were burning eyes, a face half-concealed by a high helm and a great blond-white braid splashed crimson.  
  
“It is not ended.”  
  
“Some things can never be ended,” Daeron told him gently and two pairs of deep blue eyes looked up.  
  
“Thou didst not abandon us,” Eluréd said.  
  
“No.”  
  
“We did not think thou wouldst,” Elurín confided with a small, secret smile.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
There was always some-one near him when he woke. He disliked the sleep which drew him down so heavily, but Maedhros and Maglor told him it was needed by both his body and spirit. Still, for one so active, it was debilitating and alien. Even after battle-wounds he had never felt like this.  
  
Finrod did not come, and that surprised him. He had thought that his cousin's heart might be softened. Despite his words, Celegorm would have wagered on it. Finrod the Beloved, he thought, was still as capable of surprising him as he had been in Nargothrond.  
  
“Didst thou expect him to simply forgive thee?” Maglor asked. Perhaps only he would have said that, not expecting devotion and loyalty as his due. Life had scoured him with madness and pain into this rich, compassionate beauty. He was Fëanor in a gentler mold. The fire-wells of his father's soul gained a depth here that perhaps only Fëanor himself might fathom. Or Gorthaurion, Celegorm thought out of nowhere, remembering the voice that had spoken to him on the island, hard as one tempered in a furnace himself. And from what Celegorm had learned of him, he had been.  
  
“What is the greater betrayal?” he demanded. “Love or oath?”  
  
“We would have done less harm had we been forsworn.”  
  
“Fingolfin forgave our father.”  
  
“Did he? Has he?” Maglor asked. “For us to live here, our uncle knows that he must support father. That is politics. What else is there for us but Valinor, where those who hated us still dwell, where they could act against us in a thousand malicious ways even greatly reduced in power? They did it here. No.” He touched his brothers face. “Fingolfin has not forgiven father.”  
  
Celegorm turned his head away, he said softly, “What difference? He still loves.”  
  
“Dost think Finrod would have rescued thee had had not loved thee?”  
  
“I want him on his knees. I want him to _admit_ his oath to Barahir was of less import than his love for me.”  
  
“Then thou wouldst have him admit his death was nothing.”  
  
Bitterness frosted Celegorm's voice. “All _our_ deaths were for nothing.”  
  
Maglor firmly drew back the averted face. After a moment, it nestled against his hand. The braziers hissed. It was deepest night outside, and when Maedhros entered he brought in the scent of it, and a waft of cold before he dropped the flaps. He sat down on a folding stool and looked at his brother. Maglor glanced up, realizing Celegorm had expected him.  
  
“Only the both of thee,” he said. “Until father returns.”  
  
They waited. He was going into that dark place, as Maedhros had, as Maglor had, bringing forth the images as words.  
  
“They meant to kill me,” Celegorm said. He felt again the shocking splash of warm blood from the slaughtered animal, and of seeing the twins, dangerous and beautiful as wolves.  
  
“I knew who they were,” he said. “They had Dior's face, they had Lúthien's face.”  
  
The drug in his mead had almost been as bad as the violation, he said. He could not fight, and then...  
  
“We know,” Maedhros interposed. “There is no need...”  
  
“Yes there is, else thou canst not understand. When I woke, they were weeping, and then they lay down, one each side of me, and held me.” He stared at the roof of the tent, felt his brothers eyes upon him. “They left me a knife there, within reach. To kill them as they slept.”  
  
“That was why thy feelings were in such turmoil,” Maglor whispered.  
  
“Being raped,” Celegorm said, not avoiding the word. “Is like having the skin torn from one's living body, save that the skin is our soul.”  
  
“Yes,” said both his brothers.  
  
“I am not going to die. Especially,” his lips curled with contempt, “because I know well that there are certain Valar who want me to, who believed I would. I heard Námo's voice. He tried to persuade me. He has no power of the _fëar_ of the dead now, but he would still like us in the Halls of Waiting, bodiless, unable to experience all that he deems unholy. No I will not die, For thee, for father and for,” his eyes came back to theirs. “unfinished business.”  
  
“And,” he added, not troubling to soften the announcement. “I killed a man.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Maedhros snapped, even as Maglor asked: “Who?”  
  
“Saewon.”  
  
“ _Saewon?_ ” Maedhros repeated. “Finrod said nothing of this.”  
  
“It was for me to tell.”  
  
“He followed thee? Yes, I know he has been doing so. Curufin laughed about it.”  
  
“I would never have taken him back into my service. I gave the orders to take the children, yes, but he exceeded those orders and we, the both of us, were responsible for what they became.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“He watched. I am sure of it. He enjoyed it. I saw his face,” Celegorm stopped, took a breath. “They were asleep. Saewon walked toward me. He was aroused, and held a knife. He looked... _pleased._ And he came closer, standing over me as if to show me my life was in his hands.”  
  
His brothers faces blazed with anger.  
  
“They woke up; they must have sensed him. And they froze. He raised the knife, and said I should have ordered him to kill them in Doriath. I took the dagger they had left within reach, and killed him.”  
He saw the two pairs of silver eyes lock on one another and said with steely precision: “Yes. Kinslaughter. Again. And I do not regret it. He would have murdered them.” He raised himself, it was easier now, in many ways his body felt as it had when he was new-come from Valinor, before the oath became a weight of weariness. But it still hurt.  
“Had they died in the forest, I would still be culpable, but they did not. They lived, and I became a monster as dreadful as a Balrog to them.”  
  
“We all did monstrous things,” Maglor said, wondering at the distinction Celegorm drew between his acts in Nargothrond and those in Doriath, against a kinsman he loved and against children.  
  
“Do not mistake me; if father made the oath again I would join with him. If I faced the same choices I would make them – all save that one. They were innocents. If they had died, not even Námo would have held them long in the Halls of Waiting. As it is, they are damaged and I do not think an eternity in the Gardens of Lórien would heal them.” He took the wine held out to him and drank it then said, “And I am going back to them.”  
  
“ _No,_ ” Maedhros said after a pause like a slap. “That the sons of Dior not be hunted, I agree with. That ever lay heavy on me and I cannot regret Saewon's death either, as I do not regret slaying him in Doriath.”  
  
There were some acts that the brothers' did not speak of. There was no need. They knew what madness had hounded them. And they still loved one another. This life was to have been fresh and clean, except now they knew it never could be, for they still carried their memories like a penance.  
  
“Thou didst say they were mad. They did not kill thee this time, who is to say they might not try again?”  
  
“I say it.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Celegorm looked at Maglor. “Daeron came. It was he who guided Finrod. They went to him, and slept. I asked what more I could do, and he said I should go to them for the Solstice if I would know.”  
  
“Where do they dwell?” The question was aimed with some concern at the air, and Glorfindel's voice answered in their minds: _More than an hundred leagues away, across the waters._  
  
“Thou wilt never get there in time for the Solstice,” Maedhros said with relief. Celegorm might have done it had it been overland.  
  
 _Neither will they,_ Glorfindel said. _There is a storm coming down from the north. Daeron and the twins will not reach the western shore._  
  
“What of thee and father, and Fingon?” Maedhros asked quickly.  
  
“Yes, and what of the twins?” Celegorm snapped. “With thy powers, canst thou not stop the storm?”  
  
 _I could, but I will not,_ Glorfindel responded. _The weather involves vast forces. Tampering with a blizzard here would change the weather in other parts of the world. I will not be responsible for droughts and floods in lands far from this one. We will sit it out, and Daeron and the twins know the isles and the weather, they will know snow comes, and hove to before it strikes._  
  
“I need to get to them, Glorfindel,” Celegorm insisted through clenched teeth.  
  
 _I agree._  
  
“Glorfindel...! _Why,_ in Eru's name?” Maglor stood up.  
  
 _Why? I have no answers. But they will not kill thy brother, and they could have. They need other things from him. He is right; they cannot be healed – just as none of us can be truly healed. But they need him._  
  
“Thou canst go nowhere yet,” Maglor told Celegorm, who raised a hand as if in assent.  
  
“We should send people out to meet thee, Glorfindel,” Maedhros said.  
  
 _Some of us endured the Helcaraxë,_ Glorfindel reassured him, without malice. _Thy father and Fingon will find a place to shelter and we will join them._  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The Noldor were familiar with hard winters. The lands where they had dwelled long ago had been cool and northern. Maglor was not surprised, as he made his way to Fingolfin's encampment, to see that people were already preparing for the snow. They felt it's coming. The wind had turned northerly in the last two days, driving away the fog and polishing the stars to brilliance. Shelters had been built for the horses and forage gathered in the long, rich autumn. Fires were being lit and already he smelled bread from the kilns.  
One of the guards standing sentinel outside Fingolfin's great tent, ducked in and then held back the flap so that Maglor could pass through the outer chamber and into the warm inner room.  
  
“Yes, I smell the storm,” Fingolfin said in answer to the wordless look of inquiry. “Thy father is going to wait for the others.”  
  
 _Father?_ Maglor asked into the heart of the fire within him.  
  
 _I know._ Fëanor sounded goaded. His rage had not abated, but the relief of Celegorm's recovery allowed him to control it when he could do nothing else. _I am not a fool. Fingon and I have found caves above a valley. Glorfindel knows where to find us. We have some time before the storm hits._  
  
 _I thank thee, adar._ Maglor had feared that his father would ride in wrath back to the encampment, perhaps killing the horse and not stop until he had extracted the whereabouts of Celegorm's rapists. He still might. But this was no fey attack upon Morgoth that would end in death. The fury was there, the desire to avenge was there, but Celegorm lived; the twins had taken nothing from Fëanor and perhaps, _perhaps_ he had taken his own soundings of the emotions that roiled in his son.  
  
 _Celegorm is more hale._  
  
 _He is father, yes._  
  
Maglor would say nothing of his brother's decision to seek out the twins. He hoped that Fëanor would return after the blizzard had abated, but there were the horses to consider. The journey back would necessarily be slower, and although Glorfindel could leave them and travel in the ways of the Valar, he would not.  
  
“I told him I did not intend to lose him in a blizzard,” Fingolfin said. Elves might travel in snow easier than Men, but he knew exactly how it could confuse and blind. “Not him or my son. None of them, although Glorfindel would not permit that, I think, even if it must surely tempt him at times.”  
  
Maglor essayed a faint smile.  
  
“How fares Celegorm?” Fingolfin gestured to a chair.  
  
“He does not wish Dior's sons' to be hunted, uncle.”  
  
“Finrod told me, yes. I have to be aware of such things, Maglor, while thy father is not here.”  
  
“Of course, forgive me.”  
  
Fingolfin's lips curved. “I _know_ my brothers' sons. Fingon would know from Maedhros, but he is not here.”  
  
“Maedhros and I agree with Celegorm, but father will want to pursue them when he returns.”  
  
“I know my half-brother, also.” Fingolfin lifted a quill from the table and drew the feather through his fingers. Maglor watched him and said, with a sudden, jealous difficulty that appalled him, “Thou hast influence over him – ”  
  
“If I care to use it?” his uncle finished, swift as a drawn sword. “And so dost thou.”  
  
“No, I... No.”  
  
“Fëanor goes his own way. He would take what was offered and still do as he wished.”  
  
“Perhaps not now. We lost too much.”  
  
The blue fire in Fingolfin's eyes flared and then died to a glitter. He laid down the quill and Maglor rose to meet him.  
  
“Do not ask me again to use my _influence,_ nephew. Down that path lies only madness. But,” more softly. “We both know that.”  
  
And they saw in one anothers' eyes mirrored guilt, the shame and the hunger; lonely twin bonfires that could never be extinguished.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Two days, more or less,” Legolas agreed, lifting his face into the bite of the north wind.  
  
“Fëanor and Fingon have found caves,” Glorfindel said. “The hills are full of them. They are gathering wood.”  
  
“Well, if we run out we have another heat-source.” Ecthelion flashed an unfriendly look at Coldagnir. Seated on Glorfindel's horse, the once-Balrog was staring into the tumbled, pine-clad distances. At Ecthelion's words, he said softly, “Fire is mine element, yes.”  
  
“We know that. Hells, how we know it.”  
  
Coldagnir looked away.  
  
“Ecthelion.” But Glorfindel looked faintly amused.  
  
“Laugh, my friend, but sitting for days in a cave with Fëanor and this...I can think of more comfortable interludes.”  
  
 _I could bring thee a shovel if the storm lasts,_ Vanimórë's voice teased.  
  
“My thanks,” Glorfindel said dry.  
  
As yet, there was no snow, but all of them felt it building at their backs, the musty tang of it in the wind. They made the best speed they could, for the horses sensed it also, and were skittish.  
  
 _He is interesting,_ Vanimórë said for Glorfindel alone.  
  
 _Yes. But I understand Ecthelion. I feel it myself. Eru knows what Fëanor will say when I bring him into shelter. No, I know exactly what he will say. I look into Coldagnir's eyes and know what he did and feel my hand reach for my sword. But that moment is passed._  
  
 _Yes, thou shouldst have killed him then._  
  
 _The time may come when I have to send him to judgment,_ Glorfindel agreed. _But that time is not yet._  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
 _I knew beauty, once._  
  
 _I knew love once._  
  
The mountains fell from naked stone into rough hills wild with pine and heather. It was beautiful, as the green plain south of Angband had been, as Gondolin had been, places he had helped to destroy.  
  
He _remembered_ what he had been before the world, but he could not go back into that vast light. He had chosen form, beguiled by Gothmog's words, and it had been a beautiful form, for a time...  
  
The pain of his wounds were a relief, because they were part of this new body, and he was healing fast. But he was lost in a strange world, among people who had been his enemies, hating them for their freedom and beauty. They did not trust him, watched him for a hint of aggression that would justify killing him.  
  
He was very quiet as he rode, every sensation acute to the point of pain.  
  
The river they had been following plunged and boiled down a bed of time-worn boulders that broke it into white froth, and raced into a steep sided valley. The horses picked their way up through the dark green trees and he saw two other horses tearing at short, rough grass. Downwind of them a huge bearskin lay pinned to the ground. The valley wall hunched itself steeply here, and a tall figure seemed to emerge from the rock. A cave, Coldagnir thought, and the Elves had had to eject the previous occupant.  
  
 _Fëanor._  
  
Of all the beings Coldagnir had encountered, he had truly feared this one the most. It had taken Gothmog, Daachas and he himself to kill him. Melkor had sent them. For Coldagnir to say that Fëanor _burned,_ sounded ridiculous even in the secret vaults of his mind. But it was so. It was a fire as brilliant and perilous as the Silmarilli Melkor had worn upon his brow. And now, as he strode toward them, it was _raging._ He drew his sword and advanced without speaking, his eyes locked upon Coldagnir. The others did nothing.  
  
Coldagnir felt the fire ignite in himself as he slipped from the horse, who snorted and backed away. He raised his hands and thought he would see them, black-red with the ichor that fumed under his skin.  
  
 _No. I am not that..._  
  
Before him Fëanor seemed the flame of a thousand gems, more terrible than Melkor's wrath, as he had long ago in that dead, drear land beyond the gates of Angband.  
  
Red fire. White fire. Glorfindel watched as the two converged. Through it, he saw Coldagnir's form writhe, as if the muscles sought to twist into the shape he had worn for Ages. And then he put his face into his hands and fell to his knees.  
  
Fëanor paused, just as Glorfindel had paused, and for the same reasons. Coldagnir slowly looked up, and his profile was pure as a pearl against the fire of his hair.  
  
“Kill me,” he said, into the element that was Fëanor. “I will not be that again.”  
  
Fëanor stared at him, looked up almost disbelievingly at Glorfindel. Then he rammed the sword home into it's sheath.  
  
“What in the Hells...?”  
  
“Indeed,” Glorfindel said. ~  
  
  
  
~~~

~

~~~


	49. ~ Embers ~

  
~ Fëanor and Fingon stared at Coldagnir. It was, Glorfindel knew, almost impossible to look at this red-headed man and _see_ a Balrog, yet they had. For a moment, the long-worn body had strained to return, and found itself unwanted. Glorfindel wondered what would happen if Coldagnir became angry. And he would. It was inevitable.

But for Fëanor, as for Glorfindel, the killing moment had passed, swept away by curiosity. Still on his knees, Coldagnir began to speak.

“Thou,” he said to Fëanor. “I fought in the land the Elves called Dor Daedaloth. I fled back to Angband carrying deep wounds. And thou,” to Fingon. “I caught with my whip so that Gothmog might slay thee.”

It was Fëanor who hissed in fury at that, not Fingon, who regarded Coldagnir with steady hatred.

“Gothmog was slain, but the both of thee do have the right to kill me.”

Glorfindel watched Fingon. The House of Fingolfin had eyes that either showed their emotions clear, or shut everything under an opaque shield of Helluin-blue steel. That shield was in place now, as Fingon approached Coldagnir.

“Show me the Balrog, and carry whip and sword and I will meet thee,” he said, voice as cold as his eyes. “We came to see thee slain or bested. Glorfindel? How is this possible? What didst thou do?”

“I did nothing, Fingon. Thou wert there.”

Melkor and Sauron had drawn a veil of glamor over themselves which had deceived many. This was not the same. Glorfindel was not responsible for the Balrog's changing, and that was partly the reason he had brought Coldagnir with him. Leaving him was clearly foolhardy; this was no Vanimórë who had, with only Eru knew how much determination, forged a life and will for himself under the hammer of Morgoth and Sauron. Coldagnir had dropped from the heights of bliss into a chasm which had burned him to darkness. He seemed disoriented and vulnerable with his old skin stripped from him. If he wandered into the hands of Men he would be marked by his beauty. And there might be those clever enough to use his powers as a Maia for their own ends. Whatever Coldagnir might become, he needed a watchful eye on him for some time.

“Uncle?” Fingon turned to Fëanor.

“I am intrigued.”

It was enough. Fëanor's delight in knowledge could cut like a double-edged sword and all the Noldor knew it, but it had saved Coldagnir from death. The killing rage had risen in his mind and been arrested, and Fingon had never killed an unarmed opponent, let alone one who offered himself to the blade.

Coldagnir saw no pity in any of them but neither did he have the sensation of being eaten by darkness that he had known under Melkor. These were Eru's Children. Melkor had tried to control them and when he could not, to crush them, Elves and Men both. He had never really succeeded. Even in dying, there had been triumph, and Coldagnir had seen many die. He shivered a little, but not from the chill of the wind.

“I will kill thee,” Fëanor said. “if I see the need.” And he cast a look at Glorfindel and walked to the horses.

_I know what he wants from thee._ Vanimórë's voice held surprised laughter.

_Punishment,_ Glorfindel sent along a mental nod. _He believes he should be punished, but is afraid to give himself up to non-existance._

_Well,_ Vanimórë said ironically. _I am sure some-one will oblige him._

~~~

The cave had been water-cut very long ago. There were were many streams falling from the mountains. But now it was dry and spacious enough for the horses to be lead behind a stack of heather and for their riders to relax. A fire had been lit. Fëanor and Fingon had not been idle, and there was cordwood and grouse. The bear meat would not be eaten; the great beast was old and tough, its claws longer than a man's fingers. The skin was another matter.

“It did not want to give up it's lair,” Fëanor said, scraping away the fat under the hide. He had killed it with one throw of a spear Fingon said, and with such force as to show that he truly wanted _something_ to kill.

Legolas deftly unrolled sleeping-skins on mattresses of heather. Coldagnir sat apart in the shadows, Glorfindel looking over his wounds. Fëanor raised his head and watched. The bronze eyes came up and if Fëanor had been able to find anything amusing at this time, he would have been wickedly delighted to see the Maia's blush as he fumbled to lace up the strings of his tunic.

_Be very careful,_ Glorfindel advised him. _Unless thou art sure what thou dost want._

The cave filled with the scent of horses, cooking meat, the tang of heather and the resin of pine cones tossed upon the fire. They had been sparing of the wine and had not touched the golden-brown Emberwine* brought from Tol Eressëa and Mithlond. Now Glorfindel brought it out and each of them drank, feeling the strong spirit slide down their throats into their stomachs. He offered his cup to Coldagnir, who tasted it cautiously, sipped and coughed.

“It is hard to believe Emberwine could affect a Balrog,” Ecthelion commented, with more bafflement than malice.

“I have never drunk it before,” Coldagnir said, his voice husky.

“I wager.”

“What didst thou eat and drink in Utumno and Angband?” Fëanor asked almost pleasantly. Glorfindel read the tone of his mind. Celegorm's recovery was his prime concern, and now he was forced into a short time of inactivity. He accepted it, or seemed to. Glorfindel would not delve into his thoughts unless he had to, but he did know that Fëanor was almost at his most dangerous like this. Many people did not realize his subtleties.  
Glorfindel was glad that there was something for him to think upon other than his son, but Coldagnir, as he was now, was a lamb in the presence of a wolf. Glorfindel watched, knowing what he _could_ do, and with no desire to, unless there were no other option. The Valar had rarely used their native powers for good, and when they had, _good_ was a relative word set against the destruction they had caused the world. Glorfindel did not want to regret using his own. The Elves deserved absolute freedom for good or ill, as Eru had intended.

This time they all saw the tide of delicate color sweep up Coldagnir's neck and into his face. He did not answer, but his eyes remained fixed upon Fëanor's as if they could not look away.

“Balrogs' have form. All things with a body need to eat,” Fëanor continued silk-smooth.

“Anything we could.” The answer came low and reluctant.

_He is ashamed,_ Glorfindel thought. _He is ashamed of falling from this pure, fiery beauty._

“Prisoners?” Fëanor asked. “Elves?”

The long, lovely line of Coldagnir's throat moved as he swallowed. He thought of recalcitrant thralls brought into the throne hall and what was done to them, their limbs tossed to the Balrogs and orcs as a delicacy, the blood still warm. He had devoured them, sucked the marrow eagerly and a tiny spark within had loathed what he did, what he was.

“Yes.” A breath.

Fëanor moved so fast he had struck Coldagnir across the face before the others could even blink. Glorfindel's muscles had tensed for action, but he did not move.

“And how will thou make recompense for that?”

“I cannot.” Coldagnir spoke through blooded lips.

Fëanor nodded. “Thou wilt serve me, Maia,” he said. “And perhaps _I_ will find ways for thee to make requital.”

“Fëanor,” Glorfindel gestured to the cave mouth. “Take him outside.”

The wind bit, throwing the first icy snow-grains against their cheeks. It blew straight down the valley from the now invisible mountains, screaming past the cave mouth.

“How did it feel when thou didst wound me?” Fëanor bent close to Coldagnir's ear. “When thy whip held Fingon so that thy... _lover_ could slay him?”

_I felt terror. And triumph, after._

Fëanor snapped the tunic laces and drew it over the froth of red hair. He pulled free his belt and sent it cracking about Coldagnir's torso. He saw the pain and surprise in the eyes. And something else. Holding both ends of the belt, he dragged the Maia against his breast.

“I thought so,” he murmured, and pushed Coldagnir to his knees, loosing his breeches. “Serve me and I may show thee what pleasure is _truly_ like.”

This was not Morgoth or Gothmog. Black hair whipped about Fëanor's beautiful face and streamed into the darkness. Even in the bitter night, his flesh was warm, smooth under Coldagnir's fingers. His erection was hotter, pulsing, the salt of musk spread at the back of his throat. He sucked, licked, holding the hard buttocks, until Fëanor came and filled him, and he swallowed again and again feeling the tremors which finally ebbed. He was drawn up and Fëanor turned him, pulling down his breeches, clasping his own aching erection, his other arm clamped hard about Coldagnir's belly.

“Come for me then, thou beautiful _bastard,_ ” he whispered. And it hardly needed anything. He would have come at Fëanor's word. The sight of the slender fingers about him, stroking him, made him choke on a sob of hunger and orgasm shattered through him.  
He felt himself released and fell to his knees. A hand cracked across his face and he reached for it, licking his own essence from it.  
“Do what thou wilt,” he said, longing for the fire to be within him, to spread through him and burn away black memory. Somewhere within his soul, Coldagnir the Balrog crouched before Morgoth and begged. And hated. What was more apposite to his needs than Morgoth's greatest enemy? He looked into Fëanor's eyes, into the Silmarilli and said: “My lord.”

“I will,” Fëanor promised.

~~~

The snow came at first in brief whips, then thickened to a storm of whiteness, riding up tree-stem and rock, anywhere that interrupted its furious passage. The pavilions of the Noldor, tent-pegs driven deep, repelled the snow, sending it skimming away like feathers. The weavers of that tough, waterproof material had learned their art well, been forced to learn it in long-ago northern winters. Behind it the Elves talk, ate, drank, played at games, or music, looked over plans, their building work set aside. They less endured the blizzard than welcomed the time to relax with their families, friends and lovers.

Over the howl of the rising wind, Fanari heard a sound she could scare believe: Rosriel's laughter joined with Gil-galad's and Tindómion's. They entered the tent, hair swept into clouds, cheeks blossoming with cold, and if Rosriel's laughter still held uncertainty, it was genuine enough. They sat over bowls of hot, clear broth listening to the first pebble-patter of snow before the men left, kissing both women on the cheeks. And Fanari's brows rose a little at that unforced gesture. She tied the outer flap tight and returned to the scented warmth of the room.

“What did they say to make thee laugh?” Fanari asked.

“Nothing. That, I suppose is what made me laugh.” Rosriel glanced up and then away. “It just struck me suddenly as amusing that I should walk with them, be escorted by them...”

And they knew what she was laughing at, Fanari thought, smiling herself, with a fervent gratitude that people possessed the grace of humor.

~~~

Daeron and the twins had sensed the coming of the snow and knew they would not reach the west coast or Dor Calen. It did not trouble them unduly. They had seen harsher winters than these in the remote north. And they knew the isles. They worked to prepare without need for discussion, building a shelter out of living saplings and deadfall, positioning a shelter opposite it, and a fire between, walled by stones against the wind. They had time before the blizzard hit to catch two ducks and roast them. It would be only one of many times that they had sat out a storm, and they went about their self-appointed tasks calmly. When it howled out of the north, they lay entwined under fur, holding one another.  
Waiting.

~~~

“It will not be much different to the snows of Hithlum or Himring.” Fingolfin said, drawing his cloak about him. He had met with Turgon, Maedhros and Finrod and ridden about the encampment, seeing that all was in preparation. Last he had come to Celegorm's tent. The Fëanorion was sitting in a great chair, elegantly attired, but with a look of anger in the line of his sultry mouth. Fingolfin stepped forward and took his chin in one hand. The dark eyes came up to his with a flash.

“I am well.” Celegorm jerked back his head impatiently. Maedhros met his uncle's eyes and nodded.

“I promised thy father I would see for myself,” Fingolfin said.

“He knows I am recovered,” Celegorm snapped.

“Well, thy charming manners have recovered, certainly.” Fingolfin turned away, knowing whence this mood came. Finrod had not come. He hid a smile. Finrod was sword-metal sheathed in velvet. He would not bend as easily as Celegorm wished.

“I will walk back with thee, uncle,” Maglor cast an admonitory glance at his younger brother and went out. The horses had already been penned, and two of Fingolfin's captains stood as escort bearing lanterns against the dusk. The wind stung their faces as the first snow began to drive in.

“They have found shelter.” Maglor unpinned Fingolfin's furred cloak.

“Go to thy tents,” Fingolfin told his guards and they saluted and left. “Yes,” he drew Maglor through to his warmer bed-chamber. A jug of wine steamed on hot stones laid about the fire. The bed was spread with rich furs.

“What is happening?” Maglor asked. “Father's thoughts are strange.”

“I thought thou might know.” Fingolfin poured wine. “No? I asked Glorfindel and Fingon. They all have a strange mood to them, but at least they are unharmed.” He sat down.

“He does not tell me everything, uncle.”

“No more does he tell me.”

“At least this time he will come back from the north.”

“Yes. That was in my mind also.”

Maglor's throat felt constricted. He said, through the tightness, “I want to _see_ him. To know he is here. In my madness, I heard his voice. When I hear him in my mind...”

“I understand.” Fingolfin rose and came to him. “He would not let any-one, anything, take him from thee again.”

“Or take him from thee.” Maglor pressed a finger over his uncle's modeled mouth to prevent denial. “I want to show him...And I cannot.”

“I know,” Fingolfin gently pushed his hand aside. “I know how hard it is. I know the pull he exerts.” His eyes sparkled over Maglor's face, who thought of snowflakes melting into stars.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

Something closed in Fingolfin's face and then broke open, as a flower opens to sunlight.

“If the Silmarilli were his obsession, he was mine. My most beautiful, deadly obsession.”

“Was?” Maglor asked.

“Is,” Fingolfin amended.

“What wilt thou do?”

Fingolfin felt his own ironic smile, thought of his vow to never return to that glorious sin, and Fëanor's words: _“What runs between our blood cannot be quenched by time, by words. Or by death.”_

“I think of my son,” Maglor said. “Wanting Gil-galad to force him through the wall of his own pride, the restraint he gelded himself with.”

“Yes.” Fingolfin played the same game as Tindómion, with the same end in mind. He knew it, and so did Fëanor. “Thou dost want thy father to force thee? He did not have to force _me._ I had waited for it for so long.”

They kissed as if they were falling down a mountainside, clutching at anything to arrest their fall. It was Maglor who ended it at last, whispering a name, _the_ name, and Fingolfin drew him gently into his arms then and held him. The knots of their bloodlines were bound too tightly, melted by the years so that each thread was bonded to another, and they could no longer tell which thread even belonged to them.

~~~

“What in the Hells is it?” Maeglin touched the twisted thing with his sword and looked back to where his mother sat astride a horse, her breath smoking in the clear air. He had reflexively moved in front of the corpse to shield it from her view and she knew it. He saw the expression of irritated love on her face as she dismounted and strode to his side, tall and beautiful in doeskin, her hair in one long braid like a Noldorin warrior. Her waist was girt with a sword and she carried a bow.

It would be, they had agreed, more dangerous to curb Aredhel than allow her to leave Imladris. The seasons since their arrival had been peaceful, and they had acquiesced to her desire to ride out with the warriors. She could use weapons and had taken up practicing them again: the bow under Beleg, the sword under the twins and her son. She enjoyed hunting and the open airs, loved the wild lands about the valley, and this time Maeglin thought, the old mistakes should not be repeated. Aredhel knew she was heavily guarded, but it was a compromise she was willing to make. Thus far, there had been nothing to guard her from.

“Well?” she said, and stared at the thing on the frozen ground with distaste.

“Not orc,” Beleg said. Hoof-beats sounded as Elladan and Elrohir approached. “Or,” he added. “not wholly.”

It was the size of a child, grotesque, with a deformed spine. If it walked, it would scutter with hands on the earth. It's head was large, the nose flat and wide, and the open mouth showed small pointed teeth.

“It died of starvation.” Elladan cast around. The snow so far had been thin, blown by sharp winds, but the night frosts had been hard and the ground did not carry tracks well.

“Is it an orc-child?” Aredhel asked.

“It has the teeth of an orc, but no. And they live deep in their dens until they are older.” Elrohir turned it over with his boot. It was rigid, but the ground underneath was free of last night's frost, which meant it had died before nightfall. “They travel in bands avoiding the sun unless they must. This one did not.”

“Of course,” Aredhel murmured.

“Uruk-hai?” Elladan wondered, not needing to explain. The others knew what they were.

“If it is,” his brother said. “It means some came north from Isenguard and are breeding.”

“Or some-one is breeding them.”

“No,” Maeglin protested. “It would take some-one with power to do that.”

His mother nodded. “No woman would mate with an orc, not Elf nor Mortal,” she said. “Cell's people loathed and feared them. _Is_ it a child?”

Beleg knelt. “It's teeth are overlarge, but unworn. It's skin is smooth and it's head is big in proportion to its body. That may mean nothing; it is deformed. But I think it is young.”

The twins looked at one another, their brows frowning, and all of them scanned the ground.

“It fell and died, I think,” Beleg murmured. “In which case,”

“It was coming from the north,” Elladan finished.

“Angmar?” Aredhel demanded.

“Or Gram. Gundabad, perhaps.”

“No,” Maeglin said. “Angmar.”

He felt his mother turn to him.

“It is possible,” Elladan admitted after a moment. “The direction is right. There is nowhere else. Perhaps there were women captured there after all, and that is why we found no trace: They were taken to Carn Dûm.”

Aredhel gave a convulsive shudder which she physically fought down. Her eyes burned in a face frost-white but for the whip of color the cold had slapped across her cheeks.

“If that is true,” she said. “Might they still be alive? They are strong people.”

“I pray to Eru that they are not,” Elladan said. “I hope this is some ill-born orc-pup, but...”

They fell quiet, searching. Soon they found faint signs of the creature's passage, indiscernible to any-one not trained as the Peredhil or Beleg.

“Angmar lies directly north,” Elladan said with great reluctance, his eyes searching the frost-whitened horizon.

“We cannot tell them.” Aredhel's voice was flat. “Carreg, Ness. Or Cell. Carreg bears guilt that he did not stay to fight. If he believed any of his people lived, he would go there.”

“Any man would,” Elrohir agreed. “Cell too. And they have a young son. Carreg cannot be permitted to go.”

“But we cannot ignore this,” Beleg said in his calm, inarguable manner. “If there are Uruk-hai or orcs in Angmar, and they hold men and women captive, how could we live with that knowledge and do nothing?”

“We cannot,” Elladan said.

~~~

Beleg let the heat from the fire dry his damp hair as he sat back on the settle, the wine warm in his stomach. As the flames sank, he too sank into ancient memories of wood and water, but very suddenly he was awake again and opened the balcony doors. The sleet had turned to snow. Most of the windows were dark.

Some-one had, with great care, tied a piece of cloth around the outer handle. Beleg untied it and found an oatcake, rich with honey and pounded hazelnuts.  
He stepped into the garden.

“Túrin,” he said, and a small body came hurtling out of the dimness. Beleg lifted him. He was wearing a woolen bed-robe, but his legs and feet were icy. Beleg said nothing until he set the child down before his fire and roused it.

“Thou must not come out at night without telling thy parents,” he chided, bringing a coverlet from his bed and wrapping Túrin in it. Huge eyes in a white face looked up at him through the wind-tousled hair.

“I thank thee for the cake,” Beleg added more softly.

“I thought you hungry,” said a small voice and Túrin burst into tears.  
“Gone a long time,” he sobbed. “I 'fraid for you !”

Beleg held him and the little arms clung round his neck.

“I d-dreamed you dead !” The words were gulped brokenly into his neck. “ _My friend !_ D-do not d-die, _Beyeg !_ ”

“I will not die,” Beleg whispered. “I promise thee. I will always be thy friend.”

There was a movement in the door and Beleg nodded to Cell. She came in robed against the night, her face troubled.

“He did dream of you,” she said. “I knew he would be here.” She rubbed her son's shaking back.

“I will carry him back,” Beleg offered, and Cell looked at him with Morwen Eledhwen's eyes in Morwen's face and said:  
“He will not sleep. He has hardly slept since you left.”

“Then shall he stay here?” he murmured, not wanting to trespass upon a parent's rights.

“Would you like that?” she asked and the dark head nodded in its pillow of silver hair.

“I know he is safe with you,” she told Beleg and kissed Túrin's offered cheek. “Come and eat with us in the morning.”

When she had gone, Beleg sat down and slowly, the child calmed. He nestled close, long lashes drifting shut over his eyes. One hand still gripped Beleg's shirt.

“My friend.” The little fingers gradually unclenched.

_Only grief can come of loving a Man._  
Melian's words echoed out of a summer night in Doriath. She had been right. There could be nothing but grief in this. The chasm of death lay between Men and Elves, and yet – and this was the greatest pain – it could not destroy love.

He cradled the child gently all the night through. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Emberwine ~ Cognac


	50. ~ Sparks Blown On A Bitter Wind ~

  
_He is most eager to be punished._

_And what dost thou think, Vanimórë?_

_We each deal with our guilt in different ways, Glorfindel. But whatever Coldagnir expects or even wants, this will not be servitude under a far more beautiful Morgoth._

Glorfindel glanced across to where Coldagnir sat, hands clasping his knees, staring into the flames. He looked bewildered, aroused, a little afraid. And that was a strange thought, considering what he was, or had been.

Fëanor was talking in a low voice to Fingon. Ecthelion had engaged Legolas in a conversation at first a little stilted, but now more relaxed, at least upon the surface.

 _Thou art looking for Fëanor's fire to burn away thy guilt._ Glorfindel sat down beside Coldagnir, who looked at him.

_I cannot go before my father. Melkor judges the souls of evil-doing Ainur._

It was true that Morgoth was not alone in the Void. Other spirits had been cast there. The dread of it was clear in Coldagnir's eyes. He reached out a hand and the flames pulsed.

“I sang this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Not the fire of the lightning, or that which burns in the stars or the heart of the Earth. But thou knowest this.”

“Yes,” Glorfindel said. “The fire that warms hearth and home and gives comfort to Men and Elves.”

A brief, sweet smile flickered.  
“All fire burns, but this was to be as a friend to the Children of Eru, to give them light in the darkness and banish the killing cold. I did not know it when I sang. I saw it after, when father showed us the coming of Elves and Men. And it pleased me greatly that out of the discord Melkor wrought, my song would aid them.”

He spoke softly, but the others had heard and were now watching him. Eyes on the fire, he did not appear to notice.

It explained much about him, Glorfindel thought. The Great Music was, and always would be, something he could see but not quite understand, for he was not Ainu. He had not been part of it, except in the sense that every living thing was. Melkor had thought of heat for it's destructive powers, Coldagnir had seen it as something that could give comfort, even if he had not known why. The fire that now warmed the cave, the same fire that burned in cities of Men and Elves, pushing back the cold and dark, had been imagined in Coldagnir's mind before time began.

“I cannot go back.” He held the fire like water in his hands, let it run through his fingers. “I chose.”

“Thou didst not choose to follow Morgoth.”

“No.” Coldagnir shuddered. “But does that matter? I could have fled. I was alone, and overwhelmed...and I...And later, there were times I could have run. I did not. Where was there for me to go?”

“There is somewhere now.”

“Yes.” And he looked as if he still could not believe it. “I came to thee to die and was given a name I had not heard in so very long. My true name. But I, who was Nemrúshkeraz, must expiate my offenses.”

“I would not trust thee if I saw no remorse in thee,” Glorfindel said. “But I do not know if punishment will truly aid thee.”

“It will. It has to.”

“How dost thou think I will treat him, Glorfindel?”

Fëanor had risen and now crossed to them. The fire made twin Silmarilli of his eyes.

“I know what he wants. I will not parade him before our people as a captured enemy, whip him before a mob, make him service me before a crowd. I am _not_ Morgoth,” he flashed at Coldagnir. “But I see what thou doth crave.”

“Yes,” Coldagnir whispered.

“Thou art the only part of Morgoth I can now touch. And were I like him I would indeed work out my hatred on thee. As it is... ” Fëanor regarded him and then shook his head, as if at a misdemeanor of one of his sons'. “Thou shouldst have fought him, even without hope. I would not let that black Jail Crow touch me, _Valarauka._ ”

_But thou didst let Melkor touch thee._

“No, Glorfindel, _I_ touched Melkor to show him I would never bow to him.”

“ _What?_ ” Fingon said.

Fëanor's lovely mouth formed an ironic moue. “The fool came to me once, in Formenos. He promised me kingship of all Arda under him, if I would kneel before him and own him my overlord. He wanted more, of course. One of the only Valar with any juice and all the subtlety of a falling mountain.”

“He hated thee for that,” Coldagnir said.

Fëanor smiled. “I know.”

“He sent fire to destroy fire.”

Coldagnir thought back to that time, when news had come of the Noldors' arrival in Middle-earth and the battle in which so many orcs were slain. In Angband, the Dark Lord had raged so that even Gothmog cowered, and Fëanor's name rang in curses from the stone.

“Burn him! Slay him ! _I want him broken !_ ” he had roared, and the Balrogs had gone forth to kill him. But Coldagnir had seen fear in Melkor's eyes for the first time. And it was justified. Surrounded by enemies many times his strength, Fëanor had fought as if he were not Elf but fire himself. None of the Balrogs escaped unscathed. They had not known what they were fighting. Coldagnir had not met its like before and never did again. Ever after, when he looked at the Silmarilli upon Morgoth's brow, he saw Fëanor's eyes blazing and felt the throb of long-healed wounds.

“Thou didst not...” Fingon began and stared at Fëanor, who said:  
“I had to show him he was playing games with the wrong man, nephew.”

“Bloody Hells,” Fingon said. Ecthelion shook his head. Legolas blinked and frowned. Glorfindel met his eyes with a faint shrug.

“There really is nothing thou wilt not do, is there?” Ecthelion bit.

“Yes, some few things.”

Vanimórë smiled into Glorfindels mind.

_Didst thou always know?_

_Morgoth used to say his name, sometimes, when he had me. And my father told me, long after. What Morgoth could not rule he wanted to destroy._

“Morgoth tried to control me,” Fëanor said. “ _I_ bend the knee to _him?_ Let him have _me?_ I think _not._ What did he become, but a cannibal that ate at himself. Mightiest of the Valar,” he mocked. “We will meet again, he and I. I will pull him out of the damned Void if I have to.” He strode to the cave mouth and looked out into the hard-blowing snow.

Coldagnir gazed at him mutely.

“What didst thou want on Arda?” Fëanor asked, without looking around.

“I...I imagined walking the world, meeting the Children of Eru. I wanted to feel all that they felt, speak to them, learn how they thought and lived and loved.”

“Well, thou wilt learn that now.” Fëanor turned back, laid one hand flat against Coldagnir's breast. “Thou wilt come to know us. And I wish also to know _thee._ ”

Silence fell in the unexpected coziness of the cave. The shriek of the wind outside heightened the sense of warmth and protection. The Noldor who had crossed the Helcaraxë would have found such shelter a boon, thought Glorfindel, as he lay down beside Legolas, leaving one eye of awareness open.

They all slept except Coldagnir, although he could feel Glorfindel's power and the distant regard of another mind. He did not think the Elves relaxed because they trusted him, rather they did not fear him, and that would have made him laugh, had something bitter not choked his throat. He had never wanted to be feared, in truth. The thought would have appalled him.  
He shivered although he was not cold, and closed his eyes.

~~~

He looked inward to the workings of his body and was enchanted. His heart beat, his blood flowed. He knew each organ and was amazed by them. After, he did not know how long he spent in that reverie. Long enough to feel joy and freedom. Long enough to feel the movement of air on his back, chill against his inner heat. Even that was pleasurable. Eru had showed them Elves and Men, how they were part of the world, and not only Rhovannor had been envious of the pleasures that their bodies could feel. He explored his own with fascinated fingers, felt smooth flesh, traced lower to the hot, hard length jutting from his loins. As he closed his hand over it he gasped at the intensity of the sensation. It was marvelous and shocking. He opened his eyes on a ragged gasp.

He looked up. And up. A mountain wall screamed blackness against the distant spark of stars.

This was not the vision of Arda that had enraptured him. He heard somewhere the cold chuckle of falling water. Under him, the stone wept icy damp. His erection drooped as the first whispers of doubt crawled into his mind. Slowly he rose and, very carefully at first, learning balance, he walked. Tiny sharp fragments of stone gnawed at his feet.

The only colors here were dark ones, grey and black. He looked down and saw the pallor of his body. His hair, blown forward, and teasing at his thighs was dark red as the embers of a dying fire.

He came to the base of the cliff and spread his hands against it. It was sheer and barren and a wind moaned ceaselessly against it as if mourning that it could not pass beyond.

Where was the vivid beauty he had seen, the greens and rich browns, the tawny-gold and blue, the hues of a thousand flowers? Terror overtook him and some part of him that still delighted in his body, realized his heart was beating faster.

Then came the sound of footsteps crunching stone, and he turned. The tread was heavy, deliberate. He froze, his back pressed to the cliff.

It was taller than he. Flames looked out of eyes whose gaze pinned him to the rock. Its streaming mane of hair flashed and flickered. Nemrúshkeraz sensed the power contained in it, and on that thought, it burst into dark fire. Hot air slammed against him like a fist.

“I knew thou wouldst come.” The demon laughed like the fall of hot gravel, and then he was upon Nemrúshkeraz , bearing him down, pushing into him. And oh, _Father !_ This was not pleasure, but terrible pain, tearing into his body so that his cries shattered against the mountain. He wept and pleaded as this _thing_ he had called brother, ravaged him brutally, pounding him against the stone.

He lay after, curled in on himself, hearing his own ragged whimpers. They sounded small in the oppressive darkness.

“Thou didst want a body,” a voice said from somewhere above the pain, and a foot nudged him ungently in the buttocks, wringing another gasp through his bitten lips.  
“Is it everything thou didst hope for?” Pitiless laughter underscored by a black triumph. It disgorged itself over Nemrúshkeraz in a viscous flood. “Get up, little brother. The Master wishes to see thee. Thou art his now. And mine, if it pleases him to reward his servant.”

~~~

_I should have tried to run then, but I was in pain and afraid. If I had known, I would have tried..._

He started at the touch which drew him from the past into the cave, to gentle firelight, the comfortable breaths of drowsing horses. Fëanor was before him.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

Coldagnir stared into the light-faceted eyes.  
“Thou wert right, my lord, I should have fought. But first I should have run.”

Fëanors long fingers closed on his skull, firm but not cruel. “Tell me.”

He was irrefusable, Coldagnir learned, as had others before him. He heard the broken cadences of his words and felt the streak of tears down his cheeks. And Fëanor _glowed,_ a wild rage burning from his core.

“He always wanted to break,” Fëanor said and then kissed him, long and fiercely. Coldagnir's lips opened and he drank in the wild light. When Fëanor drew back, he made a soft sound of protest.

“I am black...inside,” he breathed, loathing himself: dross and filth and violence. He saw himself chewing Elven bones, cracking skulls with his teeth to feed on soft brains. He saw... “ _Please !_ ”

Violent shivers of disgust passed through him and then suddenly, he was enclosed by strong arms, heard a deep heartbeat.

“Poor little Balrog,” Fëanor murmured. There was a trace of not unkind amusement in his voice,and underlying it something deeper and more thrilling. “I am not them. There will be time when we return, and privacy. But now, rest.”

And he held Coldagnir until the shivering ceased.

~~~

“I did not know,” Turgon said. “And I did not think I was dull.”

Elenwë smiled sidelong at her husband and took his hand. “Sometimes we do not see what is closest to us.” She turned back to Finrod. “But he is not...”

“Worthy?”

“Not because he is a kinslayer. I think they have all paid a bitter price. But he is arrogant and can be cruel.”

“I will not argue with thee. Nevertheless. He could be kind.”

“When?” Turgon demanded. “When he turned thy people against thee and sent thee forth to die?”

“No,” Finrod conceded with a dry smile. “Thou wilt note I am not in his tent.”

“But he owes his life to thee.”

“No. Those twins would not have killed him.”

“A pity,” Turgon muttered. “I cannot understand what any-one would find to love in Celegorm Fëanorion. Thou didst hide it well, and I know why now, but... _him?_ ”

“Ages passed wherein I listened to the defamation of the House of Fëanor.” Finrod's voice hardened. “They – _we_ – are imperfect. I have seen enough perfection, Turgon. What it means, in the eyes of the Valar, is that we _do as they order us,_ and never dare to question. I saw it. I lived it. They believed we should be like childrens' carved dolls given life enough to work for the Valar and witless enough to worship them. I both hate and love Celegorm, _because_ he is imperfect. There is no wrong in it, but yes, he betrayed me and I want him to beg my forgiveness.”

“I think thou wilt wait long,” Turgon said.

“I have time,” Finrod smiled with cool anticipation.  
~~~  
The blizzard had slackened, and now only a few flakes drifted down from the sky, but there was more snow on the way and this would lie thick and deep. Finrod watched as Turgon and Elenwë walked toward their encampment. He thought of Mithrim and the snows there. It had been easy to avoid Celegorm after the Fëanorions' abandonment. Finrod had been grateful for it. And no-one had watched him then. No-one had known anything of his forbidden desires. They did now, and yet he was not thinking only of himself.  
His people were waiting to see what he would do. They were loyal. After shaking themselves from the power of Celegorm and Curufin's words, they had turned the brothers forth from Nargothrond and grieved for their king when news came of his death. In Valinor, after their sentences were served in the Halls of Waiting, they came to him. But Finrod knew that the esteem in which they held him would not suffer his abnegation to Celegorm. It would be seen as a weakness in him, and although in this new haven, there was one High King, Finrod too had been a king. He was proud enough to want to keep his followers and not to become an adjunct to his cousin.

From here, he could see the red pavilions of the Fëanorions, bright against the whitened landscape. And he would not go there. Fingolfin had come last evening, given him a map of the area designated as New Cuiviénen and told him to choose the region where he wished to live. He spent the days considering, calling in those who had helped build Nargothrond, and only late in the afternoons did he rise from his table.

  
~~~

  
It had snowed for three days but now the sun set in amber glory in the east. There would be frost. The branches of bare trees latticed the burning sky like line-drawings in ink, and the lake was indigo against the stark blue-white of the snow.  
Finrod had smiled away the offered escort, as he did each day, wanting to be alone, and wondered how easy it would be to put his private plan into action.  
Glorfindel had told him that Daeron and the twins' were safe upon one of the islands. Finrod wanted to see them. He was not happy in his mind and had not been since leaving them, though he knew there was little he or any-one could do.

The winter solstice was almost upon them. He remembered how the Iathrim had been both amused and astonished that the Noldor had no celebrations of thanksgiving for the world.

“We went to Ilmarin when the Valar gave feasts,” he had said to Beleg, one morning after witnessing the one celebration which left him roused and unsettled.

“And what didst thou do?” Beleg asked with his lovely smile.

“We danced. Sang. Listened to the Valar.”

“I have seen some of thy dances.” Beleg's eyes laughed, but kindly, as was his wont. “They do not embrace life as ours do.”

“We did not couple in the open, where any-one could see us,” Finrod responded, knowing he was blushing.

“Then that is a pity, for every act of love and desire praises the One who gave us our bodies. To share it with another only increases the joy.”

“The Valar do not consider the act of fleshly joining to be necessary except in the engendering of children.”

Beleg had laughed disbelievingly, and Finrod had smiled, feeling foolish, his private vow to Finarfin sticking in his gullet like a stone.

~~~

Celegorm's hair could sometimes appear white, as could his own, but against the snow it showed its true creamy-gold tint. It was his hair Finrod saw first; the rest of him was draped in silvery furs. The Fëanorion was walking away from him, parallel to the shore, not quickly, sometimes pausing. It was deliberate, Finrod thought, though there was no-one else in sight.  
He began to turn away, while feeling that pull like a thread of fire between them, and Celegorm, swung to face him. They stared at one another for a long moment and then Celegorm began to walk toward him.  
Finrod was surprised, but did not move. He crossed his arms and waited, gauging the fluidity of his cousin's movements. It seemed he was healed. His face was cold, set in its arrogant and painfully desirable mask.

“I said I was meeting with thee,” Celegorm said. “There was no other way to stop my brothers' coming with me.”

“How couldst thou know I would come here?” Finrod asked coldly.

“Thou hast walked here every evening.”

Which was true.  
“Yes. I like to look at the waters. What dost thou want?”

“I need to go to the twins,” Celegorm said. “I need thy help. If we are known to be together, my dear interfering brothers will give us privacy. I need enough time to get a boat. And I need to go before my father returns.”

Finrod stared at him. “What madness is this?”

“Thou wert there when they said they were not free of me.”

“If thou...” he stopped, eyes narrowing on Celegorm's face. “No, thou dost not mean to kill them. I believe that. What, then?”

“I do not know. But Daeron said I should come on the night of the Solstice. I do not think he thought I would.”

“Fool !” Finrod hissed. “They are mad. They do not know what they want or need, but I think they have surfeited themselves on _thee !_ Leave them be. Thou hast done enough to them without ever touching them.”

“And that is exactly why I must go. Now go and tell my brothers', stop me thyself – or help me !”

Their gazes clashed like shields.

“Thy brothers _believed_ I would come to thee?” Finrod found that he was incensed by that notion.

“No, I do not think Maedhros or Maglor truly believe it. But here thou art.”

Wrestling with himself, Finrod weighed his options. He could – and should – go to Maedhros and tell him what Celegorm planned. But Celegorm was quite devious enough to effect his plan alone and without aid, and it happened to marry with Finrod's own desires.

“What of supplies?”

“I will _borrow_ some from the Teleri.”

Finrod glared at him. “I will have to accompany thee,” he said. “Not for thee. For them.”

“For whatever reason, let us go.” Celegorm did not seem surprised by his decision.

They walked side by side in silence, coming at length to the Teleri encampment. As Celegorm had said, there were storehouses. No-one was in sight. Celegorm drew up his hood, so that the pale furs blended with the snow like a wolf's pelt, and paused outside one building. There was a bar across the door. From tents not far away came the sound of music and laughter. Carefully, he opened the door and passed inside.

It was not difficult to find what they needed. There was everything here from wine-skins to dried fruit and honeycombs. The fishermen no doubt provisioned here before going out, and cooks came to get flour and oil. Without consultation, Celegorm and Finrod took up hempen sacks and began to fill them, then unhooked gently sloshing wine-skins. Outside, Celegorm eased the bar back into place while Finrod watched, but by now it was almost dark. The time was well chosen. After the days work, both Teleri and Noldor retired to their tents to eat and lighten the long winter evenings with wine and song.

They chose a sleek rowboat, its sail furled, and useless anyhow in the near windless air. Neither of them had experience of crewing a larger vessel, but both could row. Finrod settled the oars into place.

“I am recovered. I can row,” Celegorm told him.

“So I see. Thou canst relieve me later. Ensure we are heading in the right direction. I do not wish to row in circles.”

There was a rustle as Celegorm drew something from within his cloak.

“Star charts and a map,” he said. “I know where we are going.”

“Thy brothers may not follow thee, at least until dawn,” Finrod said. “But my household will certainly wonder where I am.”

“Then tell Orodreth thou art with me.”

“I am not with thee in the way he would construe it.” Finrod bent his back into the oars. “And I will not lose the love of my people for thee, Celegorm.”

“Wilt thou not? No, perhaps not. Thou didst never _give_ anything to me.”

“And my punishment for that was dethronement and death.”

“Thou hadst no right to throw away thy life,” Celegorm hissed at the hard, serene face gilded by moonlight. “It belonged to me.”

Finrod stopped rowing and stared at him. “Thou arrogant...! I do not belong to thee !”

Celegorm threw himself from the thwart and slammed a hard kiss to his mouth.

“I never knew what a skilled liar thou wert before now !”

Finrod lifted one foot and pushed him back.

“Thou wilt have us both overboard, idiot !”

Celegorm fell silent, both satisfied and dissatisfied by the too-brief kiss. Finrod tasted beautifully of honeyed wine, and he hardened, imagining him, lovely and naked, on his knees, asking forgiveness for placing any-one, _anything_ before his cousin. Whom he loved. He did not deny it.

The same thoughts were in Finrod's mind.~

~~~


	51. ~ The Longest Night ~

  
“I pity h-him,” Elgalad said, sitting still under Vanimórë's hands.

“It is hard to pity a Balrog, but thou dost not surprise me.”

Elgalad felt the smile in the words.  
“I am sorry. If h-he hurt thee...”

The hands in his hair paused. “It is strange, but of all Morgoth's slaves, I spent less time considering the Balrogs than any. They were demons of might and fire. I was trained against them. I hated them, but I never thought about them. I knew the orcs better; at least they were something I could understand. I suppose I could not comprehend how anything that had lived in glory would give it up for war and darkness and slavery. As I said to Glorfindel, we were all slaves.”

His hands lifted the tiny intricate braids of his hair. It felt strangely heavy to Elgalad, as if silver chains depended from his scalp.

“Beautiful,” Vanimórë drew him up.

“My l-lord?”

The leads of the small window were frosted with drifting snow. Dale huddled under the storm and all sensible people were within doors. The fire glowed red and comforting and Elgalad gazed at it, thinking of creatures made out of fire, and the Balrog Legolas had seen in Moria. He tipped wine into the pot and added honey, pushing the crane over the coals.

“I l-love thee,” he said as if it were self-explanatory. And indeed it was.

“My dear,” Vanimórë sounded almost helpless. “Thou canst not heal the hurts of the world.”

“Not th-the world, my l-lord. And is it foolish to f-feel pity?”

“No.”

Elgalad took his hand and drew it to his mouth, laying a soft kiss on the palm.

“Thou wilt undo me.”

“I think n-nothing can.”

“Do not be so certain. Listen then.” He sat down on one of the chairs drawn close to the hearth. “In this world, having form, Balrogs do have some control over their fire, and why not? it is what they are. Sometimes it seemed as if they burned inward to some place beyond my ken and were dark shadows. Gothmog was the mightiest and the most cruel, but he was also clever. Clever enough, I have no doubt, to lure Coldagnir from beyond the world with promises of freedom and pleasure. Coldagnir changed slowly into the form I knew. Gothmog kept him often at his side. Sometimes Morgoth allowed his high captain to take what pleasures he would. They were many and varied and always cruel. After a frenzy of battle, when he was sated, Gothmog enjoyed watching. As I said, in the dark of Angband, their fire burned somewhere else, beyond flesh mortal and immortal, in another place. So...I was not burned.” He watched a coal crumble apart in red and gold.  
“They whipped Coldagnir in like a dog. Gothmog took him, then fed him blood to madden him. All around they were rutting – one another, thralls that they tore apart. I confess I was too occupied with myself to truly care about the one who had me, then and after...”

Elgalad knelt before him, vanquishing the firelight, and his eyes held more compassion than Vanimórë had ever believed existed. And more love. He leaned up and kissed Vanimórë once, very gently, like a benediction, and the tears turned to molten metal on his cheeks. Tears for him. Tears for Coldagnir.

~~~

 _I will speak to our brothers,_ Glorfindel said, and Finrod paused a moment in his rowing. _I did not dissuade thee going with them because I agree with his decision. He has to see Eluréd and Elurín again. He does not mean to kill them, thou art correct._

 _Then what in the Hells does he want with them?_ Finrod asked.

 _It is more a question of what they want with him. They said he had not hurt them, thus they could not be free of him._

 _Yes, I know. And that troubles me. How can his hurting them help? What do they want him to do to them?_

 _Sometimes I wish, my dearest brother, that thou didst know more of the complexities of love and hate._

 _Ah,_ Finrod thought. _Glorfindel, I am not obtuse. Not all of my people adhered to the Valars' laws. And I would not enforced them; it would have been hypocritical. I simply affected not to know about such relationships.  
I did not practice those games of domination and surrender, no. I denied myself. That does not mean I do not understand something of them. Yet I could not countenance more hurt done to Eluréd and Elurín._

And he did not want Celegorm harmed again. Not unless he were the one doing the harming.

 _There can be a great peace in both domination and surrender,_ Glorfindel said. _The twins find peace in those games. And Celegorm knows that._

Finrod wondered whom he had played them with. His household? His own brothers'? He was annoyed with himself that he was less shocked than intrigued.

 _I know thou art intrigued,_ Glorfindel said. _That is why I wished thee to go. And I do give him credit for mastering his horror of the rape. It is not easy for him. I will tell his brothers where he is, so they do not come looking._

Whatever Glorfindel said to the Fëanorions', no-one followed them. The sun rose in a cold sky, breaking Gaear Gwathluin into turquoise and sapphire, and stroking Finrod's face to luminous alabaster. There were Teleri boats out, far behind them, but none of them pursued. Finrod shipped the oars, stretching, and Celegorm opened packs, passing a wineskin over in silence. They had not spoken for the remainder of the night. Finrod drank then handed it back. They ate oatcakes with dried meat and apples, and then took stock of where they were. Celegorm had directed them faultlessly. The islands marched ahead of them into the blue distance.

Celegorm took the oars after, determined to show he was hale. The physical exercise was pleasant, as was being able to look uninterrupted at his cousin. Finrod appeared to bear his regard calmly, which infuriated Celegorm. It always had.

As dusk fell, they beached at a small isle. Finrod said nothing. He could have kept rowing, but a fire and warmth was welcome after the chill of the lake. The wind got up in the hours before dawn. There was no snow as yet, but the sun rose behind iron-grey clouds and the smell of another storm was on the air.

They did not speak all that night. Finrod was surprised, for his cousin was not known for reticence, but guessed he was thinking of his meeting with the twins. Glorfindel had said he had _mastered his horror,_ but Finrod was uncertain. No-one could easily forget rape, and there was a tenseness about Celegorm's movements, a faint line between his brows that suggested inner turmoil. Yet this matter was more complex than it seemed, and thus Finrod held his peace. Talking anyhow, had only brought utter frustration; the words that they had exchanged collided like two stags butting heads. Celegorm's sense of ownership over him was new to Finrod, although perhaps it should not have been, and while it enraged him, he found it stimulating – or would have in Nargothrond. It also explained a great deal, but did not excuse his cousin's actions. Fëanorion love was unforgiving as it was passionate, and Celegorm's breathtaking arrogance inclined Finrod toward a violence he did not know he could feel against one he had adored. But loving a Fëanorion was a hard path to walk. One did not and could not look through their offenses. It was like embracing a rose garlanded with thorns and flame.

He wondered, through that night, whether they could ever come to the kind of closeness they had shared in Nargothrond, but had been another life, before death, before betrayal. Celegorm would have to beg his forgiveness and Celegorm – naturally – was waiting for Finrod to sue for pardon. He would wait until the sun rose in the west for that. Finrod moved to hurl a pine-cone on the fire and felt that steady, lustrous regard. It roused him as it always had, and so he glazed himself with the smooth enamel he had created in his youth, an overlay that deflected both the beautiful, arrogant reason for it, and his father's suspicious eyes.

The wind at least meant they could use the sail. Celegorm had obviously learned something of handling these smaller boats, but while Finrod had been interested in the craft of the mariners on his voyage here, that had been on an ocean-going ship. He watched as his cousin manipulated the sail with almost negligent panache, the boat scudding over the dark blue waters. Celegorm was almost at his most beautiful when he was absorbed in something other than himself – except when he had looked on Finrod with love.

They might have not found the island without Glorfindel's help. Any tell-tale signs that a skilled tracker would note, such as smoke from a fire, was blown upwind, and although Celegorm, even in his shaken state after the rape, had calculated the length of time it had taken to reach the shore, they were travelling faster now.

 _There,_ Glorfindel said, as the pine-crowned hump rose in the distance.

It was larger than the island where Celegorm had been held, craggy and wild in the darkening air. Finrod felt a the first sting of snow against his cheeks as the keel hit shingle.

They slung packs over their shoulders and stepped out, drawing the boat up onto the crescent of beach, beside another already secured there.

Finrod said his cousin's name as Celegorm started forward. He looked back. Their eyes met, and then Celegorm strode on.

The pines lamented the coming of the dark.

And the night of the Solstice came down upon them.

~~~

“No, I did not trust him,” Maglor said. “But when I saw him talking to Finrod and I did not think either of them would appreciate me watching them. I am not a spy. They have things they need to discuss alone.”

Curufin cursed. “So his dear Finrod helps him into possible danger?”

“Both Celegorm and Glorfindel do not believe there is danger,” Maedhros told him. “I do not like it either, but I will not permit any-one to look for him. Whatever his reasons, our interference might make matters worse. Eluréd and Elurín have no reason to trust any of us.”

Curufin stared at him and then strode off, still swearing. Maedhros and Maglor looked at one another. They had both guessed that Celegorm was planning something; they had not believed it involved Finrod. And that was because, Glorfindel said, Finrod had not known of any plan, but wanted no harm to come to the twins.

Now, the brothers had to wait.

~~~

Celegorm realized that the twins' has known he would come. He had not considered their Maia blood until now, these grandsons' of Lúthien, with her face molded into the harder lines of maleness. But it was there, diluted somewhat like water added to red wine, but present. They had known and they were waiting, winter-white and dangerous and damaged, then without a word, they turned and he followed them.

They used the time since their arrival here to extend their temporary shelter, and it was constructed so well that even Celegorm almost did not see it at first. Using supple pine-boughs they had created a woven wall against the wind and within, the fire reflected back from the barriers, warming the air. Daeron rose, his face closed as Celegorm and Finrod entered, laying down their packs as benighted travelers, coming on a fellow, might offer to share their provisions: wine, fruit, oat-cakes, honeycomb weeping sweetness into a glazed jar.  
Daeron inclined his head and unstoppered the wine, pouring it into a leather covered cup set on the fire-stones. He opened a small pouch, sprinkled its contents into the wine, then stirred it. Wordlessly he offered it to Celegorm, who balked for a moment, hating what this drug had done to him. Daeron shook his head and mouthed, _No. It is not the same._

The twins had already taken some, Celegorm thought, seeing the dilation of their pupils. He swallowed and the heavy richness of the wine all but disguised the musty tang. Daeron took the cup away and handed it to Finrod, who hesitated.

 _It is not what they gave to him before,_ Glorfindel reassured him. _I have spoken to Daeron, and I would not have thee take anything that would render thee helpless._

Finrod tossed it back and watched his cousin intently, seeing his hands clench, and then deliberately relax.

Eluréd and Elurín began to undress one another, then moved to Daeron who stood still under their hands. Finrod met his eyes when they had finished.

“The longest night,” he murmured. Snow whirled like fiery stars above them and the wind foamed in the treetops.

Celegorm stood motionless as the twins approached him. Finrod saw his faint stiffening and was forced to admire his courage. But then Celegorm had never lacked courage, and their movements were as deft and delicate as an esquire's. Finrod felt his heart beating in his ears as his cousin was uncovered, the great braid of hair unloosed in a creamy fall. Whatever was in the wine was running in his blood now, fast and fiery. It did not numb his senses, rather it heightened them. His skin seemed preternaturally sensitive to the brush of cloth against it, and he strained against the confines of the breeches.

And then the twins came to him. They seemed to be performing some kind of ritual. He could think of no way to refuse them, and no words would come. He felt every touch of them, and when oil-slick hands caressed his length, he groaned involuntarily. The snowflakes melted against his body like kisses. When they drew away, he saw, over the joined bar of their shoulders that Celegorm was darkly erect.

The sound of a flute lifted into the air. He had heard the wild tune before in Doriath, and on this night. Daeron had sat down under the shelter, hands supple on the instrument, eyes closed. There was something primal in the music; it seemed to come from the wind, the waters, the ground under his feet.

Eluréd and Elurín began to dance.

And as Celegorm watched, he knew that they were showing him the sack of Doriath, enacting themselves long ago. He heard the clash of battle, the shouts of warriors, the screams of the dying. They clung together before him, their eyes wide, as if seeing him as he had been then, in bloody armor, terrifying and pitiless. Then the movements of the dance spun them away. He could see them thrown onto the horses, carried from Menegroth and tossed down, watched them flinch before an invisible Saewon and react to his threats and fondling. Their art took him back to that time, and at last they lay on the skins, waiting for the culmination of their nightmares, their eyes on him, frosty hair spilled in disorder. They made little sounds like kittens as he paced towards them, and for a moment, he felt the slide of mail on his body.  
And he stopped.

 _No._

 _Kinslayer. Is this not what thou didst intend?_

 _No._ He saw them as children, waiting for abuse and death and felt no desire, either to take them or kill them. Their eyes watched him, blue and wary and then they smiled and the children were gone into a bloody past.

Elurín breathed deeply, writhing. Hands on himself, Eluréd watched, panting.

Celegorm felt the anger jet up in him. He felt again their rape of him, and the pain, his helplessness. He saw them register it in him, and the impress of satisfaction in their eyes.

“Kinslayer,” Elurín said with sweet, deliberate viciousness. “Take back what we took from thee, kinslayer. Or canst thou not?”

Finrod moved through the painful clarity of the air as Celegorm knelt over Elurín, whose thighs slid apart. He heard the cry as he was entered. Snow and fire breathed over him with the rising moans, the rhythmic thrust of Celegorm's body. Elurín screamed release and Celegorm withdrew from him, still hard and fell upon Eluréd, taking him as a wolf-dog takes a bitch. Finrod closed his fingers about his jutting erection and from some far-away place he recalled his long shame at this self-pleasuring. Then the thought vanished like snow falling into the fire. He brought himself to the threshold of release and yet was unable to come. Eluréd's groans became wilder, pained and pleading, breaking at last into sobs of relief. The brothers' curled into one another, and their faces were beautiful and peaceful. Finrod saw Daeron come to them, his hands in their hair as Celegorm turned. He looked wild and predatory and his erection still rose proud against his belly.

On a burst of anger and lust that made the night blinding red, Finrod leaped on him. Thousands of years of crippled desires, crippled by himself, by the laws, by the Valar, thousands of years of rage at Celegorm's betrayal, rage at himself, blasted through him on the drug-spiced wine.

They went down on the skins, the fir-boughs under them crackling, springy. No words, only heaving breaths. Firelight blinked over them with red-gold eyes and in its light, Celegorm shifted form, to become a great wolf, and Finrod smelled dank stone and the musk of animal fur, the charnel reek of blood. _And rose and amber, those strangely feminine perfumes Celegorm adorned himself with..._ He grappled, exerting all his strength. His hands plunged into fur, into cream-gold hair. Some-one gasped his name. His erection ground into another and fire burned in the pit of his stomach. He moved down, lips tasting salt pricking out on smooth skin. Strong fingers circled him, guided him. A voice swore, the body under his arched up and he pushed, shuddering with amazement as he was swallowed by gripping heat. And then he was riding into it through ragged exhalations of breath, a counterpoint of moans and a name, a name he uttered, his own name meeting it in brutal kisses. When he spilled himself it was like the world breaking, like death and birth together.

Fragments.

Later he felt an acid-score of pain, shocking and intrusive and _needed,_ then something broke again and his body became a harp that sang with each stroke of possession, the notes reaching a crescendo that seemed to hang in the air forever until they shattered around him, within him. Later again, the imperative need returned and he was mounting, thrusting, words falling like jewels from his kiss-swollen lips, a jewel of a name, hated and loved.

There was ice-silver hair at times, and dark, hands that were gentle and then hard, caressing and demanding, the sensation of taking while being taken, exquisite pain and always the need, sated only to burgeon again, as if his agelong hunger would feed itself in one long night. The longest night. He heard weeping and curses, pleas: _Please, more !_ and _Please, no more !_ felt shuddering climaxes and breath in his mouth, on his skin, and though it all was the hot silk of entangled limbs, the scent of sex and pine and the brine of sweat.

Then there was darkness and music and, at last, peace.

~~~

He came awake buried under furs. Every muscle in his body flared simultaneously into protest as he moved. He felt warm skin, a body, breathing, and pushed himself on one arm, then thrust himself back from Celegorm with a violence that snapped his cousin out of sleep. He looked wildly disheveled, his sultry mouth bruised, satiation exuding from his very bones as his eyes focused.

The fire was banked. Snow was falling beyond the shelter. They were quite alone.

“What art thou doing?” Finrod demanded and oh, Eru, he _ached !_ He bit back a moan.

Celegorm sat up and glared at him with those lovely, pearl-black eyes, then groaned himself, swallowed it and hissed, “What am _I_ doing? What in the Hells art _thou_ doing?”

Finrod swore and pulled himself to his feet.

 _That was a spectacular night,_ Glorfindel thought to himself, not unpleased, for it had harmed no-one and the twins had brought themselves full circle and found that Celegorm would not have harmed them in Doriath. It would not heal them; they had been damaged too long, but it had given them some relief, which was all he or they could truly hope for. They liked pain, they like to dominate and surrender both.

Daeron had told him that the drug could cause Men who took it to forget gaps of time. Sometimes they would never remember. For an Elf, perfect recollection of all their long lives was vital, and often a curse. In any event, after a time, memory would return.  
Eventually, Celegorm and Finrod would remember _exactly_ what had happened on that longest night. ~

~~~


	52. ~ Within These Walls of Pride and Love ~

  
~ Fëanor's expression had slowly changed from murder to amusement as Glorfindel revealed the events on the island. Celegorm had not told his father of his intentions to return to the twins, but neither had any of his other sons'. There was nothing they could do, and had hoped all would be resolved by the time he returned.  
  
“Thou hast surprised me,” he remarked. The storm had blown over, and he and Glorfindel had gone out to see if traveling on were possible. It would have to be, as long as it did not snow heavily again, for there was no sign of a thaw. “Sending thy beloved brother to an orgy.”  
  
Glorfindel flashed him a glance. “If I had believed any harm might come to him, I would have prevented his going.”  
  
“Well, there is no harm in an orgy, certainly.” Fëanor's eyes glinted.  
  
“No. It will do him no harm. He emasculated himself, and the Valar sapped him doubly when he was reborn in Aman.”  
  
“And they will not remember for a time.” Suddenly Fëanor laughed. “I think, I truly do think, we should adopt these customs for our own, What a shame I did not live long enough before to implement them – and experience them.”  
  
It was true, Glorfindel mused. The Noldor had certainly celebrated the Solstices, but far more formally than the Sindar or Silvan Elves. In Lindon, he had heard the word _pompous_ used by the Nandor, who cared nothing for the dictates of Powers they had never seen. But then, the Noldor knew such orgiastic rites were against the laws and could not fall back on the excuse of ignorance. It was like gelding a stallion, he thought.  
  
“No doubt our people amused themselves well enough.”  
  
“I am sure they did. They have a great deal of time to make up for. By the next winter, I think we will have many children born.”  
  
“And dost thou not wish for more?”  
  
Fëanor shook his head. “I love my sons'. I had a wife.”  
  
“And thou didst love her.”  
  
“I would not have had seven children by her had I not.”  
Fëanor looked across the white-shrouded landscape. A few flakes of snow swirled lazily in the air like thistledown.  
“I thought she rejected me, that I was one of the few who had not lost my desires. As I was. But I was not alone, was I?” he slanted a white smile along his shoulder.  
  
“No, uncle.” But reminding Fëanor of consanguinity was futile. It did not trouble him in the least, indeed it only added a spice, and Glorfindel himself was not guiltless. He had wanted Fëanor, after that first shocking possession, and had taken Maeglin in Gondolin. His thoughts swept to Imladris briefly, but all was peaceful there. For the moment.  
  
“It was not Nerdanel's fault that our marriage failed,” Fëanor continued. “Now we know that Varda influenced her so that she looked on me with fear and distaste at the end. But even so, the call of the blood of Finwë is too strong to resist. I never wanted to resist it. Why should I?”  
  
“If thou dost not know, then I cannot tell thee. And it is not Finwë's blood, Fëanor. It is thine. It is thee.”  
  
“I thank thee,” Fëanor bowed teasingly. “Anyhow, if the Valar are Eru's offspring, does not make them brothers' and sisters'?”  
  
“In a way,” Glorfindel conceded, unable to repress a slight smile.  
  
“Blood calls to blood. It is more potent than that drug my son and thy brother consumed. What was in it?”  
  
“Why, dost thou need some?”  
  
Fëanor smiled. “I can think of some I would like to taste it.”  
  
“So that they would do something they regret?”  
  
“I do not think they truly would.”  
  
“It was not the drug alone,” Glorfindel said, seeing quite clearly what was in his mind and infusing warning into his tone. “There is probably nothing that could physically cause such wanton desire, and even too much wine can banish inhibitions. Eluréd and Elurín are grandsons' of Lúthien. They have some Ainur power in their blood.”  
  
“I see,” Fëanor mused. “Yes, there were such potions in Valinor, for those who tried to fight the ingrained belief that their desires would fail. Fingolfin used it, Fingon, and two of my sons'. I suspect they _believed_ in its efficacy, just as they _believed_ it was fated that we become little more than shadows, losing our passions.”  
  
“True. Our minds are powerful weapons, for us or against.”  
  
“So it was more the twins than the potion. Interesting.”  
  
“Thou wilt not tell Celegorm?” Glorfindel asked.  
  
“No. And as he is unharmed, I suppose I should forget the Sindar for the moment. It depends on what they do in the future. There are complexities in this matter. Let me first see my son.” He raised his brows. “And thou wilt not tell thy brother?”  
  
“No. I have already advised him that both he and Celegorm will remember in due time.”  
  
“That should be even more interesting.” Fëanor looked amused. He turned as a soft voice spoke behind them. Coldagnir held out two cups of hot wine.  
  
“For a Balrog, thou art an excellent servant,” he remarked and Coldagnir flushed. “But I do have servants to attend me. Thy duties will be rather different.” He saw the hunger in the bronze eyes, the need for punishment and peace and tapped his fingers on the cup consideringly then drank, and pushed his free hand into the dark red hair. Coldagnir tilted back his head and closed his eyes as Fëanor kissed him.  
  
Whatever he had been forced to do in Utumno and Angband, it was clear he had never been kissed like this. There was something strangely virginal in his response. His lips parted and his breath tangled at the back of his throat in a gasp. Fëanor felt his hands tighten and his body become something fluid and trembling under the sleek muscles. After, he still clung as if fearing to fall, and when he opened his eyes, they were wide and shocked, his mouth blushed to crimson.  
  
“No, I suppose Balrogs do not practice the arts of love,” Fëanor murmured. “That I think, is what thou wert searching for coming to Arda, or part of it – the pleasures of the body.”  
  
Glorfindel looked at him. Fëanor smiled.  
  
“Here,” he said, not unkindly, and handed the wine to Coldagnir, who drank and choked on too much, too fast. “I did tell thee I was not Morgoth,” he added, as they walked back to the cave.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
_What happened?_  
  
Celegorm watched as Finrod, tossing a cloak about his shoulders, vanished into the trees. He walked carefully, and Celegorm's own body demanded the same gentleness. He was sore, even his testes were tender, but there was something marvelous in the feeling. There were bruises, he saw, as he pushed aside the furs; on his hips, on his thighs and arms. The marks looked like fingerprints, and there was the crust of spilled essence splashed over his skin.  
  
He closed his eyes, delving back through his memory, remembering Eluréd and Elurín undressing him, and then Finrod. Whom had looked so beautiful.  
  
_Finrod._ He forced himself to his feet. Had they...? As he eased himself into a walk, he did not feel the same as he had after his previous ordeal. There was no lethargy, no shame, there was only the ache of a well-used body and a gap in his memory that begged to be filled.  
  
Finrod was standing in the icy water up to his waist. His movements were not urgent, merely methodical in their cleansing. His hair was wet as if he had plunged his head and shoulders into the lake, and he caught it back as Celegorm approached. There were bruises on his skin also. He said nothing as he walked to the shore. There was only one boat pulled up. Daeron and the twins had gone.  
  
“What did they do to thee?” Celegorm caught him by the arm.  
  
Finrod wrenched back. “Who? What?” His eyes were a dazzling ice-blue, very wide, very angry.  
  
“They. Last night ! Do not deny it !”  
  
“I have no intention of denying anything, but I do not know what happened !” Finrod flashed back at him, his veneer of calm shattering. It was, Celegorm thought with satisfaction, very thin.  
  
They glared at one another, breath pluming in the cold air.  
  
“I do not remember either,” Celegorm said after a moment.  
_Did I have thee? If so, I want to remember it, although it should come after I forgive thee. If they had thee..._  
  
_If I had thee I do not want to remember it,_ Finrod seethed. After his denial and protestations, to fall to his cousin after some drugged wine would be insupportable.  
  
“Ask thy brother what happened.”  
  
“I already have. He said we would remember in time.” Finrod broke the hold on his arm with a twist and started back to the camp.  
  
_Oh, good,_ Celegorm thought, for all of a heartbeat. He wanted full recollection of course, to know if he had been with Finrod – Hells, he had desired him long enough ! _but..._ It was not supposed to happen before Finrod begged his forgiveness. And what right had the others to take him, if they had? He thought of asking Glorfindel himself, but knew that if Finrod had not received an answer, he himself would not get one.  
  
When he returned, Finrod was feeding the fire. The snow had stopped falling. Some of the supplies they had brought had been taken, but enough remained to make a stay of some days comfortable. Their clothes had been folded at the back of the shelter. Celegorm decided not to dress. Why waste an opportunity to flaunt himself before his cousin? Finrod still wore his cloak, but was naked under it. Perhaps he was thinking the same. One never knew what thoughts passed behind that serene, beautiful face.  
  
The wine was untainted, Finrod discovered after a cautious sip. He had quenched his thirst in with handfuls of clear lake-water, which had also gone some way to numbing the soreness of his body. Yet, despite that, he did not feel abused, and surely his spirit would be crying out had he been violated. Celegorm's had, even under the drug. No. There had been no rape. Finrod felt deeply satisfied, and would have liked to relax and remember – but what if his cousin had...?  
  
_No. I would not permit him to touch me !_  
  
Firelight drowning in icy hair, caressing Celegorm's naked body beyond a joined line of shoulders and...music.  
  
_What then?_  
  
  
He found he was hungry and ate, still thinking. There was heat in his cheeks as he battled to unearth something, anything beyond the last image frozen in his mind. There had been touches which roused him, and music. Some-one had used him, but by the feel of him, he had also participated. And he discovered that the thought did not embarrass him.  
  
“I am leaving,” he announced.  
  
“Well, I am not,” Celegorm said. “It would be too uncomfortable to row like this.” He settled back on the furs. “I have asked my brothers to come for me.”  
  
His cat-like smile twisted a knot deep in Fingon's stomach. He tried to stop himself looking at the play of creamy skin over smooth muscle, knowing quite well why Celegorm had not dressed. This display was for him. Finrod had never felt embarrassed by nudity before and had not been last night, or so he assumed. His hand moved to tug his cloak together, and then he stopped himself. Whatever had happened, and with whomever, modesty now was foolish.  
  
“Art thou going to tell them what happened?” he asked unwillingly.  
  
“I do not know what happened,” Celegorm mocked. “All they care for is that I am well. The twins are gone and left this as neat as a soldier's bivouac, so they have what they wanted.”  
  
“Well, let me tell thee now, _cousin,_ that I do not care what happened. If it needed a drug to have me lie with thee, then it means _nothing !_ ”  
  
Celegorm's eyes flashed silver-black. “Oh, _I agree,_ and the next time, _cousin,_ if I have thee, it will be after thou hast cast thyself at my feet !”  
  
“Never,” Finrod said flatly, forcing back an incredulous laugh. “Thou art mad to think it.”  
  
“Am I?” Celegorm asked. “Dost thou not look back on thy life and see how worthless thine oath to Beren was?”  
  
“And of how much worth was _thine_ oath?”  
  
“It was worth as much as any oath made with _love._ ”  
  
They were both on their feet, their bodies protesting. Flashes of pain raced across their features.  
  
“Thou didst love me and were willing to see me damned.”  
  
“And apparently, thou didst love me and were willing to see me _dead._ How did it feel knowing thou hadst succeeded?”  
  
“I _hated_ thee for dying !”  
  
Without knowing how they had moved; both now stood flush against the other.  
“I hated thee for telling me in Nargothrond of thy love for me since youth, and then denying me. _I always wanted thee !_ Remember thou those words?”  
  
“I remember everything!”  
  
“Dost thou remember kissing me and then pushing me away? Better if thou hadst made me believe there was no hope of thee.”  
  
“There was not,” Finrod agreed.  
  
“And they called _me_ cruel !”  
  
They spoke into one anothers' mouths, through the sweet fumes of wine and the heat of snarling kisses. Their fingers dragged across damp skin, hard sinew. Finrod's cloak slid from his shoulders.  
  
Yes, he thought through the haze which had its roots not in any potion, but in the far more potent drug of desire, he should have kept a distance between them in Nargothrond. The truth was that knowing his Celegorm had survived the Dagor Bragollach had been such a relief that Finrod had lowered his barriers a little; not enough and at the same time too much. Celegorm was a hunter. He knew prey. That kiss in the gallery above Narog...Finrod should never have allowed that, but the heart – and the body – are hard to wholly tame. Propinquity had strained the bounds he set to their limits, and finally shattered them.  
  
_Thou didst take my people from me save a few, everything, and I should ever forgive thee?_  
  
_Thou wert everything to me, bound to me from Tirion, and turned from me. How should I ever forgive **thee?**_  
  
Their words flowed back and forth though the savagery of the kiss and Finrod ached again with swift-burgeoning desire and rage at himself, at Celegorm. He threw back his head.  
  
“No,” Celegorm breathed harshly, locking his hands behind Finrod's nack and jerking him back, rejoining their mouths in battling passion. There was as much hate there as love, and Finrod thought of the his words in Nargothrond: _“What hast thou done to me – to **us?** ” _  
  
He was hard again. They both were. His erection ground against Celegorm's and fire shocked through his nerves, before clenching itself hard in the base of his stomach. He felt fingers encircle his length and the impulse to push his cousin back withered at birth. He opened his hand from the fist into which he had formed it, and Celegorm's shaft was so hard, so hot against his flesh, silk riding over pulsing muscle. Their breaths hitched on commingling moans, bled into one another.  
Finrod squeezed, drew, slid a thumb over the tip and felt wetness. His his own length throbbed and wept under the workings of Celegorm's fingers. Warm skin under his mouth. Teeth grazing his throat. No thought, only _sensation_ – frantic pants and the explosion that blinded him and left his legs shaking.  
  
They braced one another for a long moment. Celegorm was trembling, and there was something _glorious_ in that, in knowing he could overcome his cousin's black pride. But then, Celegorm had also overcome his own.  
  
His hand was sticky with seed. He wanted to taste it.  
  
“Remember,” he murmured as he stepped back. “that I was not on my knees.”  
  
Silence slammed down between them like a wall forged of glass.  
  
By the time Celegorm's elder brothers, Orodreth and Aegnor with them, were brought by Teleri sailors to the island, they were not even looking at one another.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The weather cleared to puffs of wind-twirled snow and bursts of sunlight hard as a slap.  
Coldagnir had never ridden before. Fëanor mounted, and Glorfindel boosted the startled Maia up behind him, telling him to hold on. Coldagnir slid his arms around the hard frame and Fëanor said, “I will teach thee to ride.”  
  
Coldagnir thought he might enjoy it, until they stopped to camp in the lee of a hill, and his muscles protested. But he was what he was, and the discomfort eased. When they rested, some-one was always on guard and he lay next to Fëanor, not knowing what else to do. He had never been close to any-one, although at times Gothmog had made him sleep at his feet, especially in the early days. Fëanor said little to him and Coldagnir was afraid of him. He wondered how any-one could not be, but he also _wanted,_ and after that kiss – and yes, what Fëanor had called the _arts of love_ were not practiced by Balrogs – he ached.  
  
The other watcher had remained silent. Coldagnir had not been surprised when Glorfindel told him of Vanimórë's apotheosis, but he felt as exposed as he had been under Melkor with those brilliant, sword-edged minds upon him, and continued to be astonished he was still alive. He did not know why, in the moments before his death – or what he had believed would be his death – he had changed to this form. He certainly could not have effected such a thing, and Glorfindel denied it was his doing. He only knew that he had wanted, at the end, to die as he had begun, not something dark and terrible.  
Terrible. Yes, he had been, but not as powerful as some of the other Balrogs. If there were any scale to such things, he had been a smaller terror than Gothmog or Daachas – and certainly less than Sauron, who was clever and cruel and more subtle than any of them. But Coldagnir too had slaughtered and fed and come to relish such things; a dreadful sick-edged enjoyment that his soul detested.  
  
He had been forced to rape Vanimórë, but part of him had wanted to, so beautiful he had been and even then, so strong, a star in the darkness of Angband. Yes, he remembered Sauron's son very well, and undoubtedly Vanimórë recalled _him._ The Elves had waived their right to kill him, out of a sense of fascination, he guessed, from Fëanor's reaction to him. But Vanimórë simply watched from some still, distant place, and he too, could demand vengeance.  
  
Coldagnir stared at the fire, pleased by its warmth, that it was what he had imagined before Time. It seemed a tiny thing in this vast land; it looked as he felt, a mere spark lost in immensity. Strange that he should feel so insignificant in the light of all he had done.  
  
The voice, when it came, was so unexpected that it startled him. Across the flames, he saw the Elves eyes come up, brilliant with warning, but when he rose, none of them moved. Glorfindel said, “No, leave him.”  
  
Whatever else he said to them was on the silent mode and Coldagnir did not hear it. He walked silently across the snow, through a stand of trees. Beyond them the white land rolled and climbed to the mountains. He heard, far away, the howl of a wolf. The moon cast the night into silver brilliance.  
  
He saw no-one.  
  
A hand touched him on the shoulder. He froze.  
  
“They are not the only ones who find thee fascinating,” Vanimórë murmured.  
  
The Ages had changed him, but the potential had been there even in Angband. He had been a child when he had been brought to Melkor's throne-hall. Coldagnir had been one of those guarding the doors. What had he felt, seeing the two children, huge-eyed with fear? Nothing. Many thralls came to Angband. He had only noticed Vanimórë when he was taken to the training pits and wounded one of the Balrogs. It had been clear then that he was being moulded as a warrior, but he was also too fine to escape Melkor's lusts.  
  
“And so wert thou,” Vanimórë murmured. “Falling to Utumno, raped by Gothmog, and slowly...darkening. But Melkor must have _loved_ ” he drawled the word. “thee looking like _this._ ”  
  
Coldagnir saw in his mind, Vanimórë held down, felt himself thrusting into hot tightness, hearing the pants of pain, seeing the rage in the violet eyes as his head tossed from side to side in agony.  
  
“Yes, I do remember.”  
  
“I am...”  
  
“Sorry? Yes, thou art. Now. Perhaps even then.”  
  
“No,” Coldagnir said as if the word were blood squeezed from a wound. “I was afraid and hurt...and there was no beauty there save the Silmarilli and thee. I wanted to touch thee. I wanted thee.”  
  
Vanimórë's brows flew up.  
“At least thou hast learned not to lie.” He settled his hands on Coldagnir's shoulders. “Thou art truly a fascinating creature. Thou didst fall so very far, and from such beauty. And thou couldst fall again.”  
  
“No. _No._ I hate what I was.”  
  
“I hated what I was too,” Vanimórë said lightly. “ _Slave. whore._ ”  
  
“But I had a _choice._ ”  
  
“I know what thou art looking for,” Vanimórë whispered. “Pain to purge the guilt, to cleanse thee of thine offenses. I think that is not precisely what thou wilt get. The Elves are rather more...esoteric than Melkor or Gothmog.”  
  
“Will Fëanor not...?”  
  
“Fëanor will play thee like a master harpist. And I should think thou wilt enjoy it. But thou must learn to live. And choose again.”  
  
“How didst thou survive?” Coldagnir asked. “How couldst thou not become what I did? Why was I so _weak?_ ”  
  
“Oh, well, I am stubborn bastard.” Vanimórë smiled, dazzling as the moonlit snow. “Weak? I think thou art not weak. Thou wert too trusting and naieve. Gothmog saw it, and tempted thee and entrapped thee.” He coiled a length of Coldagnir's hair around his fingers. “He wanted thee, and no wonder. No, I will not harm thee. This is what thou shouldst have been: beautiful, warm. A comfort. And we all have need of comfort. But do not be afraid to take it also. There was no love in Utumno or Angband. There is love here.”  
  
Coldagnir had started to tremble as soon as Vanimórë touched him. He might have gone down on his knees had not he been held.  
  
“One I love wept for thee,” the murmur dusted his mouth with warmth. “If thou art worth his tears, thou art worth forgiveness. Unless or until thy fire darkens again. And if that happens, the Elves will show thee no mercy. And neither shall I.”  
  
Coldagnir was left with the aftermath of the kiss on his lips, the trace of long fingers across his groin, and an echo of ironic laughter.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Snow crisped under the horses hooves as Fingolfin rode out with Maedhros, Maglor and Finrod to meet Fëanor. The blue sky arched like a note of clear music over New Cuiviénen, and the riders were in sight for a long time before they reached the encampment.  
  
Five had gone. Six had returned.  
  
Fëanor drew up, slung one leg over the pommel and dropped to the ground, revealing the man whose arms had been around his waist. He looked like an Elf, but was no-one Fingolfin recognized. He wore a tunic of Fëanor's, patterned his fire-flower emblem at the throat, and breeches, but was barefoot, as if they had found him naked, given him clothes but had no spare boots for him. He was strikingly beautiful, and his hair was the dark, vivid red of fading embers at the heart of a fire. His skin shone white against it and his eyes, as he looked up, were the color and brilliance of scoured bronze. As he came down from the horse, Fingolfin saw he was tall, with straight shoulders and long legs, but for all his beauty and grace, he looked intimidated, afraid. He wondered what Fëanor had done to make the stranger look like that.  
  
Fëanor walked to his sons and embraced them, inclined his head to Finrod, who returned the gesture with poised courtesy, and then turned to his half-brother. He leaned his cheek against Fingolfin's, deliberately brushing his lips against the corner of his mouth as he drew back. Finrod had gone to Glorfindel and they clasped one another for a long moment. Fëanor waited and then said to all of them, “This is Coldagnir.” The smile that lifted his mouth was amused, anticipatory. “He is, or rather was – a Balrog.” ~  
  
  
  
~~~

~~~


	53. ~ Mind-games and Memories ~

  
“Are they insane?” Tindómion wondered. It was impossible not to hear the argument coming from Fëanor's pavilion.

“Glorfindel is not insane. I am not sure about thy grandfather.” Gil-galad lightly ran his fingers down the Fëanorion's straight back.

“A _Balrog?_ ” Tindómion protested. Their eyes met for a long moment, like deadly, playful blades.

“He certainly does not look like a Balrog does he? And therein may lie at least one of the reasons he is here.”

They turned at the voice. Finrod and Legolas walked toward them. Further away, Fëanor's sons' were gathered close to their father's tent. Celegorm looked across at Finrod, his eyes burning silver-black in the sun. Finrod, with aloof and beautiful courtesy, inclined his head.

“It _was_ a Balrog,” Legolas said when they had exchanged greetings. His brows were drawn.

“What didst thou see?” Tindómion asked him.

“It was as I saw in Moria: a dark shadow of fear and flame with terror going before it.” Legolas told them of the events he had witnessed, of knowing Glorfindel could outmatch the creature yet still feeling relief when it fell.

“And then it simply changed. To what you see now.”

Glorfindel was in the High King's tent, possibly, Tindómion thought, to stop Fëanor and Fingolfin fighting. He had taken the Balrog with him, probably to avoid _it_ being attacked.

“What in the Hells did it say to make Glorfindel spare it's life?”

Legolas said slowly: “I do not know, but when it... _he_ changed, Glorfindel drew him back from the gorge and named him. I thought he was mad too, for a time and so did Ecthelion. Fëanor had already gone on when he felt Celegorm's rape and Fingon followed him. When we came to the cave where they made camp, Fëanor came to kill the Balrog. I have no doubt of that. And there was a moment when the creature seemed to begin to change back to darkness. He _asked_ Fëanor to kill him. _“I will not be that again.”_ he said.”

“And Fëanor withheld.” Tindómion stated. “And Fingon?”

“He said he would fight a _Balrog._ ”

“My brother sees something in him,” Finrod observed. “What he was, or could have been. This, not a thing of flame and destruction.”

Legolas nodded. “He admitted what he had done as a servant of Morgoth, and genuinely seems to loathe it. He wants to make reparation.”

“Really,” Tindómion said skeptically. “And how does he intend to do that?”

“He wants to be punished,” Legolas replied.

~~~

“And this is the one whose whip trapped my son so that Gothmog could slay him?”

Fëanor had never seen Fingolfin so enraged, save when he had been shown his half-brother's challenge to Morgoth. His eyes flamed blue-white and he looked so beautiful that Fëanor wished they were alone. But his decision to bring Coldagnir to the encampment was a test of his rule and anyhow, he enjoyed arguing with Fingolfin. Every clash held memories of seduction and sex, the lingering taste of forbidden desires.

“And he is one of those who attacked thee?”

“It is hard to believe, is it not?”  
 _Hells, thou art tempting like this !_

 _Be silent !_ Fingolfin whirled on Glorfindel. “Why?” He demanded.

“It was no power of mine that caused him to change to what thou seest,” Glorfindel said. “I can only answer as Fëanor has: I did not know why I was moved to spare his life. But I did, as did thy brother and thy son.”

“Why, because he does not _look_ like a Balrog? Melkor did not look evil once. Neither did Sauron according to my grandson !”

 _He **is** lovely,_ Fëanor teased.

Coldagnir held himself still, as he had from the moment he had come into the tent. Beyond its walls he could hear voices upraised in anger against him. He expected to be dragged out and ripped apart. It would be fitting, but he was afraid of what lay beyond death and there was no-one between him and the Void but the whims of Fëanor and the power of Glorfindel. He could not think of himself as having power. He was trying to remember what he had been before he darkened. It seemed he had been very little, that all he was had been twisted into evil courses.

“Because he intrigues me,” Fëanor said. “And I am not sure one would find many servants of Morgoth who were sorry for what they had done.” He stepped before Fingolfin smiling a dangerous, loving smile. “Dost thou think none of this occurred to me? That none of thine own thoughts entered my mind, or Glorfindel's. Or thy son's?”

“I think there were other considerations,” Fingolfin said. “I know thee.”

“Yes. Thou dost.” _And so very well, beauty, just as I know thee._  
Fëanor stepped aside and gestured. “Then kill him, brother.”

~~~

Coldagnir remembered the day Fingolfin had challenged Melkor. His cries could be heard even in Angband, the vents allowing his voice down into the depths like a white sword.

And Melkor had not wanted to answer it. Coldagnir had been a door-ward that day. Not even Gothmog had moved. Fingolfin's voice froze those who heard it. No-one dared look at Melkor. They were horrified, afraid that Melkor would turn on them. Because he too was afraid.

“His brother,” he muttered like the slide of hot gravel, and clenched one hand. “Yes, thou wouldst hate me the more for slaying thy beautiful brother, wouldst thou not, Fëanáro?” There was rank, ancient hate in his tone. And lust.

He rose from his throne and slowly walked from his hall to the gates carrying Grond, that great black hammer which never left his side. They followed at his silent command, Balrogs, wolves, trolls and orcs, the massed ranks of Angband behind their lord who went forth to face one man.

But _such_ a man !

 _And Melkor was afraid,_ Coldagnir thought as Fingolfin's eyes turned again to him, blue-silver light, as they had been that day, burning under his helm. He had seemed a living star dropped to the earth. And the High King of the Noldor, Coldagnir had realized then, was _not afraid._ He fought his lone and hopeless battle with concentrated fury, and each time he wounded Melkor, the Dark Lord screamed in outrage, the sound clanging back from the mountains. The orcs cowered, as did Coldagnir and somewhere, so deeply buried that it was as hard to find as the prick of stars through Thangorodrim's fumes, he hoped that Melkor would be defeated. But the greater part, the demon he had become, wanted – needed – to see Fingolfin slain. He was a terrible reminder of the light Coldagnir had once known, too glorious to be permitted to hurl his beauty into the faces of those who dwelt in darkness. And thus Coldagnir smiled when Melkor broke the High King. He waited to see the body torn apart so that it would not be magnificent any more, but bloody offal and wolf-meat, for Fingolfin's face, even in death, shone, and there was peace in it. Melkor's foot would ruin it. Perhaps when all was over, Coldagnir could find a pool of that sweet blood to taste, take a piece of the dented silver armor or a tress of black hair to keep as a memento of the Elven-king's death. He swallowed saliva, hoping and hating, but then one of the great eagles came in a boom of wings like thunder and Melkor screamed as talons raked his face. The body was lifted and carried away and roars of rage and madenned glee followed it.

Melkor limped back to his throne-hall leaving a tread of dark blood. Some of his minions lingered and Coldagnir walked across the steaming ground. Fingolfin's battle-blood had already sunk into it.  
Something winked at him from the earth, and he dug into it bringing forth a sparkling stone – one of the clear crystals that had decorated the king's shield. It had been ground ice-smooth on the uppermost surface so as not to catch any weapon that struck it, and it was beautiful. He made a movement to spit on the gem, hurl it away, but almost of their own volition his fingers closed over it.

He secreted the crystal away, thinking it represented the fall of Fingolfin, the destruction of glory, but he knew now that it was Rhovannor the Maia whom had wanted a reminder of transcendent courage.

It took a heartbeat to remember, and then he found Fingolfin before him, the glittering eyes so close to his that he could see the flecks of opalescent blue in the silver, like tiny stars. He felt the cold prick of something over his heart and saw the dagger pressed against his tunic. It wavered in his vision and then he heard Fingolfin say, his voice gone very strange, “He is weeping.”

Coldagnir had not even realized he was. He blinked.

“Why?” Fingolfin asked him.

It was very quiet in the tent.

“I saw thee die,” Coldagnir whispered.

Fëanor had not know that, he thought, feeling the impact of his stare.

“And so?”

“I did not want something so beautiful to be permitted to live. Thou wert an offense.”

“So why dost thou weep now?”

“I kept...a crystal from thy shield.”

Fingolfin stared at him for a long moment, as if puzzling something through in his mind, then abruptly he withdrew the dagger. He shook his head, lifted a hand to Coldagnir's cheek.

“A Balrog's tears,” he murmured. “What are they worth I wonder?”

~~~

The tent flap suddenly flung back and Fëanor stepped out. Fingolfin joined him and Glorfindel strode over to Legolas and Finrod.

“That is enough !” Fëanor's voice imposed silence like a slap. “What art thou – children? Glorfindel fought Coldagnir in the mountains. He was awoken by one of the Valar and he became as thou hast seen him, and not by any power of theirs. Glorfindel did not slay him, neither did I or Fingon. He will remain with me and try to make requital for his deeds.”

“Father,” Caranthir cried. “ _How_ can he make requital for what he has done?” There was a groundswell of agreement to his furious question.

“That will be seen. If he cannot, or if he began to show... _tendencies,_ do not doubt that he can be sent into the Void.”

“ _His_ whip held Fingon's arms to his sides so that Gothmog could slay him !” Maedhros that was, his eyes blazing. Fingon stood beside him, his expression faintly frowning. “Has he glamored all of thee, even thou, father?”

“If Melkor in all his power could not my dear, I assure thee, a Maia could not,” his father said, his tone so assured that none listening could doubt it. “I think thou wouldst search long to find a servant of Morgoth's who felt any regret. He has placed himself in our hands. So be it.”

Heads turned to look at Glorfindel, who said calmly, “It is so. I battled him in demon form to the edge of a gorge. He fell and clung, and as I raised my blade for the killing stroke he changed, and asked me for his name, his name before he was Coldagnir. I saw it in him and saw his heart. Thus I made a decision.”

“Fingon, Ecthelion?” Turgon demanded.

“I will fight a Balrog, brother,” Fingon said. “Not a man who carried no weapon, and told me I might kill him.”

Ecthelion lifted his shoulders in an assenting shrug.  
“I trust Glorfindel,” he said. “I do not trust _it,_ but as Fëanor says, it can be dispatched if necessary.”

Coldagnir had not been told to either leave the pavilion or remain and he stood indecisively as the others walked out. He looked at the furnishings, breathed in the incense smoldering in the braziers, saw the lamps spark off silver winecups on a table, a hanging that must lead into an inner room. He felt the hate outside the door and that at least was familiar to him. Taking a long breath, he lifted back the flap.

The silence was an entity. Coldagnir felt the eyes like the fall of arrows.

Tindómion stared at the emerging figure. What Finrod said was undoubtedly true. He had never seen a Balrog, but he knew them from the descriptions of others. This looked like a man. A very beautiful one. Frowning, he tried to determine what there was in him which inclined the others to mercy. Glorfindel might be able to see into his soul, but Fëanor, Finrod, Ecthelion could only guess. And they had let him live.

He appeared vulnerable, Tindómion decided. Despite his height and the elegance of his form, there was something in him that suggested newness, like a bird escaping from it's shell, or a long-legged foal tottering to its feet. His flesh was pearl-pale against the striking red hair, which possessed none of the copper of Maedhros' nor the bronze of his own, but was the red of old wine, dark and vivid. His eyes, catching the daylight, burned it back like bronze shield-bosses. There was nothing servile in his bearing, but there was about him a look of confusion and fear. Some of the Void-banished Noldor had looked like this on the sands of Eldamar, uncertain of what life they were released to.

 _Rebirth,_ he thought. _Is that what this is? A rebirth?_

“I – ” Coldagnir began to speak. The silence grew if anything, more intense. “I want to say that I did not know what I was doing. But that would be a falsehood. I did. I fell into darkness and learned to...serve Morgoth.” He looked over the heads of the gathering, into the pale sky. “I want to learn what it is to live free.”

“Wilt thou not hold council over this?” asked a clear voice, and Fëanor looked at the speaker, a tall fair man. “Thou art High King of the Eldar, not a tyrant like Morgoth.” The unspoken challenge was clear.

“I thank thee for reminding me, Aegnor.” Fëanor's smile was marble.

“He is right,” another said, black of hair and with a lovely gold-haired woman at his side, who nodded agreement. “This is too serious a matter not to be discussed in council.”

“We will meet tomorrow, Turgon, and thou and Elenwë will attend,” Fëanor said. “The others I will name later. But he stays. He must be watched. If he were to stumble into hands that might use him for evil, he would be a powerful weapon. Whichever of the Valar awoke him wanted him to harm at least some of us, and also wanted Glorfindel's attention focused elsewhither whilst one of my sons was raped. Perhaps they hoped Celegorm would be killed. I want this former Balrog under our eyes, not wandering the world to be used by our enemies. For some of the highest in Aman _are_ still our enemies. Who can doubt it? We saw it here, with Lady Rosriel. They may attempt to harm us or influence us in other ways. I find it amusing that one both they and Melkor sent to kill must now be protected from my own people.”

“I agree with my uncle and we have discussed this on our journey here,” Glorfindel said. “It would be more dangerous to let him go, and to kill him when he has shown repentance is an act Morgoth would perpetrate. We cannot kill him as he is now, before he does anything to warrant it. But yes, it is a good time to name thy council, Fëanor.”

“Yes,” Fingolfin said. “It is.”

“I will do so,” Fëanor told them. “Come to me at sunset both of thee. I have considered those I will choose, but of course,” he added. “I will appreciate thy thoughts.”

~~~

Glorfindel walked to his own tent with Legolas and Finrod. They talked softly and seriously behind him until they were in private. Water was heated for washing and Finrod waited while they bathed, stirring honey and crumbled spices into wine. He heard the sound of bodies and voices skimming the edge of lovemaking and drawing back, and smiled as his brother and Legolas came from the inner room. As he poured out the wine, he said:  
“I remember.”

Glorfindel paused with the wine-cup halfway to his mouth.

“I know thy mind has been occupied,” Finrod continued. “And I know why thou didst make no demur at my going with Celegorm.”

Their eyes met. Glorfindel said softly, “Thou art not angry?” It was a question. Finrod lifted his brows and his brother went on, “Yes, I can see thoughts, feelings. Sometimes it is necessary, but I do not like to do it. Where can people be private if not their own minds? The Valar knew all of what we did in Aman and waited, patient as spiders, for us to come to judgment. I do not wish to become as they. And I want thee to tell me.”

Finrod was, after all, his elder.

“Shall I leave you?” Legolas murmured.

“No,” Finrod said. “There is no need. I am glad thou hast been with Glorfindel when I could not, and there is little thou canst not know our the complexities of our family.”

Legolas assented with a wry nod and sat.

“No, I am not angry,” Finrod continued. “I wanted him, but neither he nor I will bend to the other. He wants me on my knees in abject apology. I will accept no less from him. That night was a taste of how it could be, and it was magnificent, but nothing has changed.”

“I am glad that tasting the fruit has not inclined thee to go to him and ask forgiveness,” Glorfindel said. “He is the one who betrayed thee.”

“And I betrayed his love. It is true. I did, but I could do no other. I knew for a long time that I would die and – ” he shrugged. “Even had I not vowed to myself to be father's perfect son,” here his lips curled in faint disdain. “there would have been no future for Celegorm and I.”

“Our father was not worth any oath, my dear.”

“I know it. I knew it when he disowned thee. What we do out of a sense of duty.”

“Has he spoken with thee since returning?” Glorfindel knew the answer before he asked. Celegorm would be waiting for Finrod to go to him. But in this instance, he wagered, Celegorm's patience would snap first. Finrod had held him off in Nargothrond. He would not succumb so soon.

“No.” And Finrod's eyes suddenly danced like stars. “And if he does – when he does – I will affect not to remember anything.”

Legolas' eyes widened and he threw a quick look at Glorfindel. Who bent his head and began to laugh.

“Canst thou do that?” he asked after a moment, looking up.

“Yes,” Finrod answered, calmly smiling. “There is still a sense of unreality to it; something that I imagined. Were it not for...” he paused, and a touch of color came and went in his cheeks. “My body, I might have believed that was all it was some spell wrought by the grandsons' of Lúthien and my own desires. And thou didst want me to know pleasure without guilt, didst thou not?”

“Yes,” Glorfindel admitted, and not without a tinge of satisfaction, “It will drive him insane.”

“Yes,” Finrod agreed. “I hope it will.”

~~~

“Stay here,” Fëanor commanded Coldagnir in his tent. “I need to speak with my sons. No-one will disturb thee. When I return I will bathe.” His mouth turned up at one corner. “And so wilt thou.” He moved closer. “Truly thou art intriguing. I would have imagined all of Morgoth's servants as glorying in death and destruction. And thou didst, but something in thee loathed it. And thou didst take something of my brother's to remind thee of beauty. What should I do with thee?”

“I _did_ glory in death and destruction,” Coldagnir raised his head as if inviting a blow. “I will not deny that.”

“I would not believe thee if thou didst,” Fëanor said. “What an interesting creature thou art.” He gripped the back of Coldagnir's neck and the bronze-colored eyes closed. Fëanor laughed and released him.

“Later,” he promised.

~~~

The day was very cold. Sunlight blazed on the snow and the cut of the air went down into the lungs like iced wine. Fëanor's sons were waiting for him and he embraced each one. They moved to a fire where cooks were roasting meat and poured hot mead.

“Well?” Fëanor looked directly at Celegorm. “Shall we talk, or wouldst thou rather not? I am intrigued that all of thee closed ranks against me, when thy brother decided to return to the two who raped him.” He knew why, of course. They had, in the complex way of their clan, loved and protected one another after his death and grown even closer through the years when the doom lay on them. They loved him but had, reflexively and without consultation, come together to protect Celegorm from his anger.

“We believed there was something afoot, but not what.” Maedhros cast a hard look at Celegorm. “And Glorfindel assured us no harm would come to him. We trusted that. Father, about that...creature...”

“He stays,” Fëanor said flatly. “I know thy reservations, and why thou wouldst decree his death. We may be forced to slay him, but I think not. I hate what he was as much as thee. And yes, I _understand._ ” He settled a hand on Maedhros' cheek. “I saw Fingon's death also. But there are other matters to consider. I am not merely being whimsical.”

Maedhros glanced across to where Fingon spoke with Fingolfin and received a slow nod.  
“I do not like it, but I see the argument for it,” he conceded.

Fëanor kissed his cheek. His smile was ironic and tender. “My thanks,” he murmured. “Celegorm, come.”

As they walked across the crisp snow, he said, “I feared for thee.”

“I know, _adar._ I felt thee. All of thee.”

“That dross in Valinor, they could not know what would happen, but they hoped...If they are not using Rosriel any longer, who else are they using?”

“Any of those dust-buttocked adherents of hers, I would think.”

“Probably, but they have been under guard.”

Celegorm watched his father consider the possibilities and set them aside for the moment. The brilliant eyes glittered over his face and seemed to coax out each thought.

“I was afraid thou wouldst fade.”

“Maedhros did not, father. Maglor did not. I would not. They wanted me to. Námo tried to speed my dying.”

“Námo,” Fëanor remarked, with something in his face more terrifying than anger, “will pay and pay and pay again for what he has done. I swear it.”

“I do not want vengeance visited upon the twins,” Celegorm said as they entered his tent.

“I know.”

His son was surprised at his apparent acquiescence, Fëanor saw. The great pearl-black eyes searched his face.

“I came back to kill them,” he said. “But thou didst weep for them.” He cupped Celegorm's face with both hands.

Slowly the fair skin tinted under his fingers. It was not often Celegorm blushed or seemed discomfited.

“They made me into a monster,” he whispered. “And their fear of me drove them mad. I think they will always be mad.”  
And then it came out, poured from the well of his doubts, his regrets, his loves and hates. He paced the interior of the tent, the lamplight flashing on the gemmed rings that decorated his expressive hands. Fëanor let him speak until he came to the end, the longest night, and watched the explosion of memories burn up in him like a torch.

“It should not have happened like that.” He jerked out the words.

“He had thee.”

“How...? Glorfindel _told_ thee?”

“No. Everything thou hast done and said has told me. I am thy father.”

“It was the wine, the drug.”

“Glorfindel said it was probably not, and I agree. Those twins have some power.”

“Yes. The dance.” Celegorm frowned. “I remember. They were testing me. And Finrod...”

Fëanor's smile deliberately beguiled. “Didst thou have him?”

“Yes. Later. After he...took me.”

“Was it all thou hadst dreamed?”

“Yes! hells, yes! But it should not have been like that !”

“Beautiful Finrod,” Fëanor mused, thinking of the serene and lovely face that concealed so much. “And so, this changes nothing?”

“Would it for thee, father?”

“It should change everything for _him._ ”

“Well, it has not !” Celegorm threw at him. “If I remember, surely he does. And he has said nothing. I have not seen him until today and there was nothing in his face, his eyes...”

“Dear son.” Fëanor's smile softened. “He has had long practice in denying himself.” He thought of Fingolfin and gleamed. “It has changed the both of thee. It is just another step in the dance.”

“I hate him,” Celegorm's face was hot as it nuzzled into Fëanor's throat. “I hate him, and I want him. How dare he look at me as if nothing happened ! ”

“How dare he indeed?” his father murmured, smiling over the fair head in an ironic salute to Finrod's game. ~

~~~


	54. ~ Fireflowers ~

~ Hot water was poured into a copper tub and Fëanor emerged from his tunic and undershirt in a cloud of black hair.  
  
“Well,” he said to Coldagnir. “What art thou waiting for?”  
  
“What...what dost thou wish me to do?”  
  
Fëanor stepped into the water. “Join me. Wash my hair.” He gestured to a pair of jugs. “We will use that to rinse out the soap. Come, I imagine Morgoth bathed.”  
  
Coldagnir felt heat spread outward from his core and flush his skin. He fumbled with his clothes.  
  
“Yes,” he said.  
  
Fëanor twisted up his hair in a thick, loose knot and began to soap himself. The scent was spicy, like the incense that fumed in the braziers.  
  
“I do not know what to do with thee, Balrog.” He turned suddenly and jerked Coldagnir into the water. “So innocent thou doth look, and thou hast served evil, yet...” his soap-slick hands ran over straight shoulders. “Something in thee hated it. And thou didst keep a crystal from my brother's shield.” He stooped and cupped water, poured it over the tense body and followed it with a caressing glide, searching out each sinew and bone and hollow of flesh.  
  
“And thou doth want punishment.”  
  
“I deserve it.” Coldagnir's stomach spasmed at the touch of Fëanor's fingers.  
  
“It would be easy to punish thee. I could shackle thee, drag thee at my heels like a slave, humiliate thee. There are many ways to punish, are there not?” Suddenly Fëanor turned and unloosed his hair. “Wash it,” he said.  
  
Coldagnir lifted a jug and poured clean water through the great mane, then lathered soap in his palms. He gathered the mass in his hands, working the soap through it. His shaft rose hard and Fëanor laughed and turned, picking up another jug. He locked one arm about Coldagnir's waist and upended the jug. Water sluiced over both of them.  
  
“Tell me what thou doth want,” he commanded.  
  
Coldagnir blinked through water-heavy lashes, gasping. Fëanor's erection ground hard against his own and he thought he would would blossom into fire.  
  
“I want thee to cleanse me. I...want to be forgiven.”  
  
“How? I am no holy-pure Power. I am not Eru. As for forgiveness, thou hast thy life. Is that not a measure of forgiveness? Or dost thou want Ilúvatar to forgive thee? Then ask him. Art thou not one of his sons'?”  
  
Coldagnir thought of the terrible love and glory that was the face of Eru, and shrank away from it. Melkor had said that all those who served him were _his_ for eternity. Coldagnir could not return to the Timeless Halls.  
  
“I left Ilúvatar. I unhomed myself. Melkor owns my soul, perhaps forever, but thou couldst burn me clean.” He raised his head, thought back to a time so distant that it could not be counted in years. “I know what thou art.”  
  
“Truly?” Fëanor sounded amused, even playful. “What am I?”  
  
“I cannot...” He shuddered, heard the thump as the emptied jug hit the floor. “I need to forget them...the taste of them...the feel...”  
  
“Dost thou want pleasure, Balrog, after so long?” Fingers massaged his scalp, and the sensation seeped through his skin his skull, dripped into his body. “Or dost thou want to be taken as they took thee? Is that the punishment thou doth wish?”  
  
“I do not know. Thou art not they.” His hands moved through heavy hair, sought out the muscles of Fëanor's back, the hard curve of his hind. “Fire to scour fire.”  
  
“I am to be thine own _Fos Almir?_ ” The words were breathed into his mouth and Coldagnir inhaled them. “That is impossible.”  
  
“No...”  
  
“I cannot cleanse thee, and no-one can make thee forget.”  
  
“I cannot live with what I was.”  
  
“It would be too easy,” Fëanor murmured. “to forget. We remember. We make our own peace with the past. Or not. What thou doth truly want is to live without memories and the shame they bring to thee, and no-one can do that.”  
  
“Thou hast never done what I did.”  
  
“Some would say what I did was worse, for I never did anything out of fear. Pride and passion ruled me then, and rule me still.”  
  
“Please.” Coldagnir took a gulp of air and found only fire. He raised his legs, one then the other, his thighs clinging around Fëanor's hips, his arms braced about the hard back. Then, with a moan, he forced himself onto the erection. He heard himself whimper and pushed down again, impaling himself on the length. Tears bled under his lashes.  
  
Fëanor supported him, and Coldagnir heard his throaty growls as he sobbed, writhed, remembering, _needing._ Wet skin, the taste of soap and water, clean flesh, incense, slamming heartbeats.  
  
Slowly, Fëanor went down on his knees. He leaned forward and Coldagnir's back touched the floor. Through the pain and longing, he stared into the famous eyes that had stalked Melkor's thoughts until the fall of Angband. No doubt they did still, where he sat in darkness.  
  
 _I know what thou art,_ he thought.  
  
 _I am Fëanor._ And he thrust and pleasure flashed through Coldagnir's body. He made a sound in his throat as the sensation grew. And grew. He kept his eyes on Fëanor until his possession and fire filled his world and whipped the black shadows into tattered rags.  
  
“Thou art thinking that pleasure has to be paid for,” Fëanor's voice came to him through the flames. “That thou art not deserving of it, until thine offenses are forgiven. But when thou art forgiven, then who else can truly forgive thee but thyself?”  
  
Later, when Coldagnir was dressed, he said, “Thou shalt speak to me of Angband.”  
  
“I do not wish to think of it.” The bronze eyes were dark and haunted.  
  
“We never like to speak of our sufferings,” Fëanor agreed. “We do not wish to dwell upon them. But I do not ask out of curiosity. Thou doth already remember. I do not think anything will give thee more pain that recounting it. And nothing will aid thee more than to tell me of it.”  
  
“Why dost thou not hate me?” Coldagnir demanded.  
  
“I did. A little of me still does. Does that content thee?” He smiled. “But thou art _interesting._ I saw a Balrog, a Maia of fire turned dark, and now I see this.” He drew damp lengths of red hair through his hands. “Thou might not even be the Balrog Glorfindel fought, to look at thee. But thou art, and do not attempt to excuse what thou didst become. And yet, wert thou not just one of Morgoth's slaves? Powerful, yes, capable of lust and slaughter. Thou wert feared, but thou didst also fear. What does Morgoth fear, I wonder, shut behind the doors of night? These are some of the things that intrigue me.”  
  
“He fears thee.”  
  
Fëanor laughed. “Does he really?” He raised his brows and then continued, “It is said that the race of the orcs were bred of corrupted and broken Elves and Men.”  
  
Coldagnir gave the barest nod.  
  
“Of course they bred as Elves and Men do, and thus became a race, but thou wert corrupted thyself, yet there remained something that knew it, that hated it. Can all corruption be healed? Does all evil hate itself?”  
  
“He wanted to corrupt _thee,_ ” Coldagnir said. Then, “I saw some of the Elves he captured, in Utumno.”  
  
“Thou art trembling.” Fëanor no longer felt amusement or irony.  
  
“What didst thou see when Melkor was in Aman?” Coldagnir asked. “I think that the Elves there, perhaps many of the Valar did not realize what Melkor was, what he could do. He...poured his power into Arda. The things of the Earth, to affect them. It was like a blight, like mold on meat that rots it through. And those he bent his will on could not resist. Thou didst not see what he could do. I did.”  
  
“He slew my father,” Fëanor hissed, suddenly all hate.  
  
“Better death than corruption.”  
  
“So, thou art saying that I could never have bested Morgoth, yet thou didst see what my brother essayed.”  
  
“It was something I could not understand, until I fought thee. Melkor fled from Valinor to Angband, and he was afraid; not of the Valar, but of thee. Even after thy death, he still feared.”  
  
Coldagnir was quite serious. Fëanor searched the inflections of his voice, his eyes, for signs of flattery, but saw none, and said impatiently, “So what wouldst thou tell me?”  
  
“Thou wouldst know what he fears. It is thee.” He dropped his eyes.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Forgiveness,” Vanimórë murmured. “I wonder, do we ever wholly forgive?”  
  
The long building was warm from the fires lit to cure hides, although the snow still lay thick on Dale and the north. There was no trade in the winter, and only trappers and hunters ventured abroad.  
  
“Thou h-hast forgiven him,” Elgalad said.  
  
“Have I? Let us say, I _understand_ what he did. And why.”  
  
“What will b-become of him?”  
  
Vanimórë watched the smoke rise through the louvers.  
“That will depend upon him, my dear.”  
  
“B-but, who awoke h-him, my lord? C-could they try to...influence him?”  
  
“Come outside for a moment.” They stepped out into still grey cold.  
  
“Glorfindel is aware of this danger,” he said. “Yes. It is possible that whomever woke him might attempt to use him for ill. It does not seem to have occurred to Coldagnir himself, but as yet he knows very little of the world. I told him he might fall again, but I do not think he understood me. To him, as to me, the enemy was Morgoth and Sauron. I did not know for a long time that those called _good,_ were as pitiless as my masters. Coldagnir is vulnerable now, and both Glorfindel and Fëanor know that.” He quirked a brow. “Why dost thou care, my dear? He will not be permitted to harm any-one.”  
  
“I do n-not think I fear that.” Elgalad's eyes searched his face. “I th-think...I would like h-him to have the chance t-to live again. I remember my terror wh-when I saw one of the Úlairi...”  
  
“Ah, yes.” Vanimórë traced his fingers down the sweeping line of Elgalad's cheek. Dol Guldur.  
  
“I could n-never have imagined such fear. All I knew w-was thee; thy care. Thy l-love.” He shuddered, and his body swayed into Vanimórë's. “Thou didst t-tell me of Morgoth, of Sauron, b-but they were only that to m-me – tales. I could not envisage horror, not then. Coldagnir came from a place of l-love and light to Utumno.”  
  
“And thou canst imagine what he must have felt,” Vanimórë said.  
  
“Dol Guldur w-was not Utumno, I know. To stand before M-Morgoth after knowing only l-love...”  
  
Vanimórë looked into the dew-clear eyes and leaned his brow against Elgalad's.  
  
“My dear,” he said. “We will watch Coldagnir, but in the end, as with all of us, _he_ will fashion what he becomes.”  
  
“My lord...n-not every-one is as strong as th-thee. Some break, through h-hate and fear. But the Noldor have b-been given the chance to l-live afresh, though they killed and betrayed.” Elgalad lifted his mouth and pressed a kiss beside Vanimórë's mouth, light and sweetly tentative. It flooded his being like nectar, and was as powerful as grief.  
  
“Strong,” Vanimórë repeated feeling the scorn on his tongue. “It was hate, Meluion, that was all.” He watched the silver head shake in rebuttal.  
  
 _Glorfindel?_  
  
 _I spared Coldagnir for these very reasons,_ came back Glorfindel's answer to both of them. _He will be watched._  
  
They turned back to the warmth of the curing-house.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Coldagnir listened to the voices from the outer chamber, grateful that Fëanor had said he should remain in this inner room while he met with his people. He recognized Fingolfin's voice of smooth steel, and Glorfindel's tones blending with another very similar, rich and mellow. There was the chink of winecups, the rustle of paper as they settled.  
Fëanor had thought him flippant, even truckling, at his suggestion Melkor feared him. And then he had looked deeper with those eyes that pierced ruthlessly to the core and seen it was not so. He did not believe it, but it was true.  
  
 _I know what thou art,_ Coldagnir had thought into the silent furnace roar of hunger and pain, Fëanor within him in ways far deeper ways than physical possession.  
  
 _I am Fëanor._  
  
And yes, it was that simple. So simple it was overlooked.  
  
 _Fëanor.  
  
Spirit of Fire._  
  
Names are power. Names say everything.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Maedhros,” Fingolfin said. “I do not say this because he is thine eldest. He is a superb commander and warrior, a good lord of his people.”  
  
“I agree,” Finrod said and Glorfindel nodded endorsement.  
  
“So, Turgon and Elenwë. Fingon.” Fëanor glanced over the list. “Thou, my brother, Maedhros, thou, Finrod.” He favoured his nephew with a slow smile. He truly was skilled at hiding his feelings. “And the ladies? ”  
  
Finrod looked surprised. Fingolfin did not.  
  
“Didst thou not have women on thy council?” Fëanor asked them.  
  
“Yes,” Fingolfin said. “Of course. Their concerns were our concerns.”  
  
“I did not expect thee to...” Finrod paused and shrugged elegantly.  
  
“Nerdanel was always my wisest councilor, until Varda froze her blood,” Fëanor said, his voice gone to metal. And only for them to hear: _Erestor, once I have dealt with the traitors. What of his mother, Lady Cúraniel? Both of them carry the shame of being the wife and son of a coward, and she, I understand, died fighting orcs in Gondolin with a small knife._  
  
Glorfindel's eyes warmed. “Yes,” he said. “I think that a remarkably good idea, uncle.”  
  
“Finrod, think of a woman among thine own folk who would sit upon the council.”  
  
“I will.” Finrod inclined his head.  
  
“Come later,” Fëanor smiled. “I would like to talk to thee.”  
  
“Very well, uncle.”  
  
And Celegorm would come if his father ordered it, and all unsuspecting.  
  
“Maedhros will suggest one from among his own people, as wilt thou, Fingolfin. And of course, Rosriel.”  
  
There was a sudden silence. They looked at one another.  
  
“I think,” Fingolfin said after a moment, “That is wise. If she accepts it. Considering her former position, it would be a slight to overlook her.”  
  
“I will have Gil-galad take her an official letter.” Fëanor went to the outer tent-flap and spoke to one of the guards. When he returned, he brushed a hand over the vellum and began to write, sealing it with red wax. “Were Aredhel here...” He slipped the seal-ring back over his finger. “I will keep a place for her,” he said, as if there was no doubt at all she would come.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
~ Rosriel carefully unfolded the scrap of parchment. When the people had surged towards the Fëanorion encampment, some-one had brushed past her, and she had felt an insistent hand push against hers. She closed her fingers over vellum, but when she looked around there were too many people to guess who might have given it to her.  
  
 _“My Lady,”_ she read, _“Do not forget what thou art, and what thou doth owe those who supported thee for so long. The Queen of the Stars cannot shine through the filth that has fallen on her people, but she gathers strength and will return to thee in power and glory when a blow is struck in her name, and when we hear it, we will break free and come to thine aid. Not all of us are under arrest, we are not in fetters, and we have many friends who will rally to us. Thou doth know, in thine heart, that thou hast nothing, and are nothing if the Lady is gone from thee. Strike the blow, my lady ! Strike he whom thou doth hate and we will overthrow this vileness.”_  
  
She felt a sense of nausea, as she had when she had been pregnant with Gil-galad, but this was more visceral, an oppression, despair at the thought of Elbereth battening upon her again. Looking back at her life Rosriel saw herself as a girl, a young woman, a wife, a mother, and saw them all, save the child, as Varda, a frosty entity that clung around her, crackling with the smell of old ice. She might have hated Fingon had she been herself, might have been disgusted by his relationship with his cousin, but she had never been allowed to choose; she had been bent into a cramped creature that could only hate. Even her son.  
  
She recognized the script of course, and the thought that she had once sounded as blindly obsessive as Borniven embarrassed her. He was a fool. If he and her other adherents – _former_ adherents – did indeed escape and rise up, they were not enough to overcome the forces of the High King, the princes and lords. But there would be some, she knew, who were adept at concealing their feelings, who would be serving even now in the households of people they despised. And apparently, they were waiting for her to act. Why?  
  
Because if she succeeded, they could step forward to support her, and if she did not, they would never be discovered. What did they know, she wondered, to believe that she would do anything? It filled her with unease and she rose and paced the tent. Perhaps they knew nothing. Perhaps they were simply as fanatical as Borniven, as she herself had been.  
Finding a weapon would not be difficult. Borniven must know she was no longer under arrest. There were knives for skinning and gutting, as well as daggers, and the women as well as the men practiced combat skills if they wished. She had never been interested in such things in what she now thought of as her _other life,_ but it took no skill to drive a dagger into some-one. All it needed was opportunity, and Borniven knew that too. It meant, in effect, kinslaughter. They were desperate. Not even in Lindon had they attempted such a thing.  
  
She crumpled her hand over the vellum as the tent flap lifted, breathing icy air inward.  
Gil-galad entered, a scroll bound with red ribbon in one hand.  
  
“Mother.” He inclined his head.  
  
Their meetings were still cracked by chasms of silence. Rosriel imagined it as some strange maze formed out of uneven pillars that they both had to navigate very carefully. It seemed to her that he was a stranger, and she knew she must appear so equally to him.  
  
“From the High King.” He handed her the scroll and she stiffened, searching his face, but saw nothing there to alarm her. She took the scroll, untying the ribbon and cracking the red wax.  
  
“Is this some kind of Fëanorian jest?” she asked.  
  
“Elenwë has been appointed to the council, and Cúraniel also.”  
  
“I am no longer wed to thy father.”  
  
“That does not matter, thou knowest politics.”  
  
Rosriel felt her knuckles clench on the vellum. “Didst thou suggest this?”  
  
“Fëanor decreed it,” Gil-galad corrected with a faint smile.  
  
She took a breath and held it, then murmured, “I need to...speak with thee.” She beckoned to the table and sat down, dipping a quill into the ink. Her ability to communicate in on the intimate mental mode was rusty from disuse. She had thought that Elbereth might have used it and then realized she probably did not need to. It also seemed too hard, at the moment, to try and talk to her son in that way; an intrusion. Perhaps, she admitted, she was afraid of what she might see. She lifted a finger to her lips at Gil-galad's curious expression and began to write.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Yes. A little.”  
  
Cell sighted breathed in, out and loosed the arrow.  
  
“Good,” Aredhel said. Then, “Beleg knows, and it troubles him.”  
  
“It is nothing he has done,” Cell fitted another arrow and drew back the string. It thudded into the packed straw with a satisfying sound. “I know this. There is something more to my son's love for Beleg.”  
  
She turned her head and met the Elf-woman's eyes, brilliant and dark. “You know it. Do you not?” At Aredhel's silence, she nodded. “I think that we escaped from our homes so that Túrin could be born in safety. His name, too. Ness has told me of the first man who bore that name.”  
  
Ness, Aredhel thought. Yes. He and his cousin both had keen minds, and the long winter evenings were conducive to study and storytelling, as well as other, more earthy things. The people of Angmar, save the sot, Lorh, wanted to learn of the Elves, of the Men of Westernessë, and they had begun to learn to read. Aredhel had deliberately tried to use books that did not mention Túrin Turambar, but Ness could follow Sindarin well enough to slowly puzzle out a tale. He could go freely into the library, and people talked in Imladris.  
  
“Cell.” Aredhel paused. The light was draining slowly out of the world, and the sun struck the distant mountain-flanks, painting them yellow- gold. “Thou art different to many women,” she said at last. “Thy dreams...”  
  
“The Earth's gift to the women of Angmar,” Cell said. “Some of them anyway. To be able to dream.”  
  
“There are things we should speak of,” Aredhel said. “Where is thy son now?”  
  
“With his father.”  
  
“Is he jealous of Túrin's attachment to Beleg?”  
  
“Have you not seen? Carreg is enamored of you Elves.”  
  
“If Men knew us better they would not be,” Aredhel said, as they approached the house. “We hate and bleed and suffer and die as Men do, and we do not forget our griefs.”  
  
Cell paused. “I do not envy you,” she murmured.  
  
Aredhel fed the fire in her chamber and thrust a poker into two cups of cyser. Cell took it and drank.  
  
“My grandmother told me that in our home women possessed only one thing that gave us any advantage. We were useful, we Dreamers. Useful and feared.”  
  
“Some of us have foreshadowings of the future,” Aredhel nodded. “If Elves have that gift – curse – why not Men?”  
  
“I have dreamed of my boy.” Cell looked into the fire. “I have seen him in a great hall, with a woman and man dressed like nobles. I have seen him grown, fighting in battles wearing a strange helm upon his head.” Her hands moved to describe it. “There was a figure upon the crest in gold, like the head of a serpent, but fanged as a wolf is. And,” she drank again. “I saw a black sword in his hand. I saw him slay with it. He slew Beleg.”  
  
“Not in this life,” Aredhel said.  
  
~~  
  
The last, distant peaks of the Towers of Mist held the light, floating above the world. Cell turned away from the window.  
  
“You say that Túrin's soul was bound to the earth for thousands of years and has returned to redress a wrong done him. I believe you.”  
  
“I know,” Aredhel said.  
  
“In the dreams, his father and mother looked like Carreg and I. They were not of the commonalty, but high-born. Ness told me the tale of Túrin Turambar. But how does one set aright such an ancient curse?”  
  
“That, we do not yet know,” Aredhel admitted.  
  
“That is not quite true, is it?” Cell raised her brows. “It is Angmar; something dark is in Angmar. No, I do not dream of it. But it is my land, the land of my ancestors for years uncounted.”  
  
“Orcs came to Angmar,” Aredhel said carefully. “Fleeing from the ruin of war far in the east and south. And thou didst flee from them, and came to us.”  
  
“To bear a son with another man's soul,” Cell whispered, then, “You know something. What?”  
  
“Scouts have searched for thy people. None were found, and that is the truth. But we did find something. Some misshapen orc that seemed to have come from Angmar.” Aredhel deliberately infused her tone with indifference. “Orcs fight among themselves.” And she held Cell's eyes willing the other woman to probe no deeper.  
  
“That is all?”  
  
Aredhel loosed an inward breath of relief.  
“We are speaking of traveling further north when spring comes.”  
  
“No.” It sounded like an order. Cell raised a hand. “Carreg is a fine man. I chose him for my mate because I saw nobility in him, and that is rare enough in our land. Ness has it too.” At Aredhel's nod, she went on, “Carreg would have stayed and fought were it not for me. And we would all have died. In his heart he knows it, yet he still feels guilt. As do I. He would go back if he could, just to see for himself that there was nothing he could have done. I do not want to lose him. I do not want Túrin reft of a father.”  
  
 _As he was long ago,_ Aredhel thought.  
  
“Beleg does not know of thy son,” she said.  
  
“He does _not?_ ” Cell looked startled. “Why not?”  
  
“It is hard enough for Beleg seeing the resemblance. Túrin was said to look like his mother, and so Beleg looks at thee and sees Túrin. And if he knew, he would fear to...influence the child in any way. But thy son will remember, in time.”  
  
“And he is already drawn to Beleg,” Cell said.  
  
The women fell into mutual, understanding silence, some things said, much left unsaid, because speaking can force potentialities into being. Their eyes reflected the dance of the fire.  
  
~~~  
  
Lorh sidled away from the balcony. It was something he had found out living among these demons: they often left windows ajar in all but the wildest weather. He had seen and heard some things that sent him back to his own room to work his lust off, things that decent people should keep private. As he walked, already anticipating the jug of mead he would consume, he considered what the witch had said. His daughter was fey-witted like her mother before her, swallowing every lie the demons poured into her ears. And now she seemed to believe her brat had the soul of a dead man. He made the sign against evil even as he inwardly scoffed. The demons had practiced their dark arts on the babe at birth, that much was clear, and Cell was too enspelled to admit it. The boy even looked like one of them, save he had the ears of a normal Man. And Cell was unconcerned that the silver-haired one desired the child. Lorh doubted Carreg would be so sanguine, but perhaps he should mull this new knowledge over and see what he could do with it. At the least, perhaps Carreg would take them from the valley, go to the tall grey-eyed Men who came here in the summer and autumn. Lorh feared and hated the Elves and hated Carreg almost as deeply, but by the laws of their people he was bound to protect and provide for his wife's father. Carreg could not abandon him. But it was winter, and Lorh did not want to travel in the cold. He had become used to warmth and a ready supply of food and mead. So, he would wait and then break the news that the demons tastes ran to children.  
  
He almost emptied his bladder when he collided with the tall form that seemed to come out of nowhere. Diving aside he ran. It was that black-haired witch's son, and Lorh felt the pale, too-bright eyes on his back as he fled to the shelter of his room and the comfort of his mead.  
  
Maeglin stood looking after him for a moment, frowning. The sour-faced drunkard seemed harmless, which was why Elladan and Elrohir had allowed him a measure of freedom. He was interested in nothing but food and copious amounts of mead and could be half intoxicated any time from the morning onward. How he had fathered Cell, Maeglin could not understand, but presumed her mother must have been a beauty. He heard the murmur of women's voices: his mother's and Cell's and his eyes narrowed. He mistrusted the guilty look in Lorh's eyes as he had dodged away, reeking sudden fear-sweat. If the man were spying upon Aredhel or any-one in the valley, it would go hard with him. Maeglin had barely taken any notice of him before. He would now.  
  
He turned as he heard a child's voice, saw a door open, flooding light and watched Carreg and his son enter the warmth of their rooms, then shut out the chill. The brief glimpse had shown him Túrin's small face, rosy with play and the nip of the air, and Carreg smiling. He walked on to his rooms and went into the bedchamber, unlocking a casket and looking down at the two halves of Anglachel.  
  
The boy felt it, he knew. Before the solstice, he had found Túrin hovering at his balcony. Beleg was gone from the valley, and the piquant little face was white and weary.  
  
“What is it child?” he had asked with unusual gentleness.  
  
“You have b'ack sword?” Túrin had stared up at him and his body shook under the rich furs.  
  
How was he to answer that, he wondered.  
“A black sword?” he repeated.  
  
“It _bad !_ ” And the child began to cry. He made no sound, but tears spilled and spilled from his huge eyes.  
  
Maeglin chose his words with some care as he went down in a crouch.  
“Swords are not bad or good, Túrin. They can be used to kill, yes, but also used to defend people who are helpless. Thy father knows this.”  
  
Túrin shook his head vehemently. “B'ack sword _bad !_ ” he reiterated vehemently, and began to gulp and gasp with the force of his sobs.  
  
Maeglin scooped him up and took him to Cell. He was troubled by the incident, and judged his mother had done aright in telling the woman what she knew.  
  
Now he let drop the lid of the casket and closed his eyes, wondering what lay in the darkness of the north that would, inevitably, draw them into a new doom.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Where is the Balrog?” Fingolfin asked pausing at the tent-flap. He knew quite well and Fëanor loved the jealousy that wove itself with sin and desire and tightened the thread between them. Smiling, he gestured to the inner room.  
  
“So easily I can hate thee, half-brother,” Fingolfin whispered and walked toward him, silver blue eyes wide and wild. He threw one arm about Fëanor's neck and breathed. “Where hate bleeds into love; there I stand. Forever.”  
  
“I know, my beauty.”  
  
Their bodies surged inward to meet and their kiss was sheet lightning. They were always and forever poised in the heart of the storm created by their mutual, terrifying attraction.  
  
Fingolfin broke free at last, as he always did. And never did.  
  
He was never free. ~  
  
~~~  
  



	55. ~ Never To Be Commanded, Never To Be Owned ~

  
~ _Can we trust her?_ Fingolfin looked at his son.

 _I think so. If Gil believes it, and if Glorfindel sees no lie in her._

 _I do believe it,_ came Gil-galad's answer. After reading his mother's explanation and the note given to her, he had not gone straight to his father, but remained with Rosriel. If there were people watching, they would suspect something if he hastened from her tent.

 _Thou wouldst need to be damned sure,_ Fingolfin said grimly. _This has to look as authentic as possible._ He gauged the hesitation. _Glorfindel?_

 _I do not see any deep-seated plans in her,_ Glorfindel said. _And I can prevent Varda influencing her, but I cannot foresee where emotions might take her. Rosriel is not under Varda's sway, but she has no love for Fingon. I do not think she would set forth to deliberately harm him, but she is in a delicate place in her own rebirth._

 _Yes,_ Gil-galad said. _That is what concerns me, that she may strike out through her own pain and confusion._

 _Then I am wholly against this proposal._ Fingolfin's voice flattened.

 _Father, we need to know whom these spies are, and let us be honest, we need to have a valid excuse to send Rosriel's cadre back to Tol Eressëa or Aman. Glorfindel might find them out, but what proof have we of their intentions unless they are publicly witnessed acting against us? And our people will need to see that proof, indeed they have a right to ask for it._

 _I will do it,_ Fëanor said. _Rosriel's father served Fingolfin. He hated my house. Rosriel hated Fingon because he loved my son. She was pushed into that marriage to break their love. Had Fingon not loved Maedhros, what would she have hated? Perhaps it would have been a better marriage. I will be her target._

 _No._ Fingolfin slipped into the intimate mode, even as his son protested with equal vehemence. _Do not be a fool._

 _She has no training with weapons, my beauty. I will be in no danger._

 _Fëanor !_

 _Uncle !_

Fingolfin sensed the smile. _I will not be in any danger. I can stop a dagger thrust. But I want our people armed. I suspect the traitors will be._

 _It would be usual for us to have an escort of knights,_ Glorfindel said. _But I do not approve of this either._

 _I note the disapproval. Gil, speak to thy mother._

There was a silence, and then, _She will do this,_ Gil-galad replied.

Rosriel put one hand over her mouth, then she lowered it and looked at her son. He drew a dagger from his belt, reversed it and handed it to her. She thought of the time, the long, long time, when she had imagined how good it would feel to plunge such a weapon into him and his father before him.

 _I will show thee what to do,_ he said.

The hilt felt cold under her fingers.

~~~

“Sit down,” Fëanor gestured.

Finrod inclined his head, crossed to the seat Fëanor indicated and took the offered wine. It was warm, spiced and eased the dryness of his throat. His long practice at masking his feelings would mean nothing under Fëanor's penetrating eyes, he whom had seen into Melkor's soul.

“I am glad to see thee, nephew.”

“I thank thee, Sire.”

“Surely, 'uncle' will suffice. Have thy people all they require?”

“It is little different to when we came to Beleriand...uncle. We have more supplies. And no war to fight. At least, not an open one.” He glanced toward the inner flap. He could feel the Balrog's presence there.

“The Valar may attempt what they wish. It will avail them nothing.” Fëanor laid a hand on his shoulder. “I never knew thee, Findaráto. Thou art as remarkable as thy brother.” His smile flashed white and warm, and Finrod felt his heart jolt. It was Celegorm's devastating smile that could unravel all his resolution's in one flash – if he permitted it. One could look at Fëanor and forget the Oath that had doomed the Noldor, forget the madness and the violence it had spawned. Fëanor had died in conflagration and his sons had accepted his burden. Yet the heart of the Oath was here, and the passion that had declaimed it in Tirion blazed from the diamond eyes.

“I did not know thee either, uncle,” he answered, his voice level, his face, he knew, calm. “I did not think thou didst have any interest in thy half-brothers or their children.”

“That is partly true, and it is wholly true that thy father feared and hated me.”

Yes, Finrod thought, Finarfin's hostility to Celegorm when he found him in Finrod's bedchamber was merely a splinter struck from the block of loathing he harbored for Fëanor. Finarfin rarely spoke of him, and if he did, it was with acid on his tongue. Knowing what he did now, Finrod suspected it was Fëanor's relationship with Fingolfin that birthed such hate, fear of what the Valar might do and a greater fear that if it were ever known the House of Finwë would be denounced and banished.  
And Finarfin was no fool. He had seen the spark leap between his eldest son and Celegorm that day. Ever after, he watched Finrod closely, and even after Finrod removed to his own house, there were some who reported his movements.

Finrod had felt both relief and guilt when Finarfin turned back on the road to Araman. His father's going had lifted a weight from about his neck. He had not seen Celegorm then, had not in fact, spoken to him until Lake Mithrim, but hope had begun to glow in his heart like a coal on a winter night, small and warm. He had tried to smother it, conscious of his unspoken vows to both Finarfin and Amarië, but it nestled there, comforting, exhilarating.  
Nothing had ever been said between he and Celegorm in Tirion. To watching eyes, most especially his father's, they were cousins, and not even close ones, but beneath that lay a land sleeping under snow, waiting for the spring. Then, in Endor, Finrod became a king, with all the responsibilities of that position, and Celegorm was far away, until the blood and fire of the Dagor Bragollach.

Fëanor had seated himself, and was observing him. It was like looking up into a familiar night sky to see a new star burning there, strange and a little alarming. A new star, or an old one returned.

“Yes,” Finrod said. “I know he did.”

“That face,” Fëanor leaned forward. “Smooth and beautiful as snow. Thou art very good at concealment.”

But now, color was rising into his cheeks. Finrod said, “It is necessary at times, uncle. Is it not?”

“Yes. And it can be a thrill.” He laughed. “Tell me,” he continued. “Didst thou enjoy having him?”

The uprush of blood heated Finrod's face. His instinct was to rise and leave the tent, but he held himself still.

“Celegorm was not the only one on that island, uncle.”

“No. It sounds like a marvelous night.”

“My people will not accept my forgiveness of thy son.” Finrod found he had risen after all, but not to run.

“My _sons_ turned thy _people_ from thee.” Fëanor spoke with lethal succinctness. “Thy folk do not deserve thee, Findaráto.”

“They were besotted by thy sons words. There was power in them, the power of that damned oath roused to waking.” Finrod fought against the chime that Fëanor struck in his heart. He had been _bitter_ when he left Nargothrond with but ten loyal companions, all of whom died. But the bitterness had been a small thing compared to the shattering hurt of Celegorm's betrayal.

“And now I do see something in thy face.” Slender hands cupped his cheeks. “Celegorm would never accept less than all of thee. I understand him. I do not accept less than all either. No unworthy oath would have weighed heavier than love.”

“It was not an unworthy oath !” Finrod heard himself laugh, a sound of disbelief. “I have spoken of this to Celegorm. There is no place we can touch. He feels I betrayed him and I – _I_ was betrayed, _Sire._ Doubly. As betrayed as Fingolfin when thou didst leave him to return to the prison of Aman.”

“Yes,” Fëanor murmured. And, “Yes. An Oath is a sacred thing, and mine destroyed my sons and all who came into contact with it. When oaths collide there is _only_ destruction. Yet, despite that, thou and Celegorm didst touch. There is _nothing_ more powerful than the fire that runs between our Houses.”

The memory of the longest night made lava of Finrod's blood. He felt Fëanor's beautiful mouth as Celegorm's and sank into the savage beauty of the kiss.  
His uncle broke it after an everlasting moment, and stepped back and now his smile was warm, teasing.

“Yes,” he said, then turned to the entrance flap. “Come in, Celegorm.”

Celegorm strode in, utterly unprepared. He stopped in one stride and their eyes met.

“I did not know thou wert in company, _adar._ ”

“Take some wine,” his father ordered. “And wait for me.” He passed into the inner chamber. Celegorm hesitated, then his gems flickered as he moved to the table, his back to his cousin. The room was too filled with unspoken words and remembered sex. Finrod thought the walls might split with the force of it.

 _I will not leave and appear a coward,_ he vowed through the anger and arousal. He had faced Sauron, and dueled in the same manner with Manwë and Námo. He was not going to flee from Celegorm Fëanorion.

“How art thou feeling, cousin?”

He deliberately timed the question as Celegorm was pouring the wine and saw the jerk of the hand which sent wine spilling over the table to be sopped up by the vellum. Celegorm swore.

“Well, I thank thee.” He did not look around, and his voice was taut.

“Good.” Finrod stared at the tense straight back. The thick braid of creamy hair was looped casually about Celegorm's throat, and swung down his back to his waist. It stirred a little as he tensed his shoulders. Finrod remembered the strange magic of the solstice, when he had for a moment, seen his cousin become a great wolf of Tol-in-Gaurhoth and had wrestled with him. Did that mean something? That he had felt Celegorm was his enemy? Well, had he not been? He breathed in the same amber-rose scent that had had pulled him back to the night, into lust and anger. And ecstasy.

“What did my father want with thee?”

“To assure himself all is well with my people.”

Celegorm drank and slammed the cup down. He whirled.  
“Ah, yes, I know this tone,” he hissed. “The wise, calm Finrod, incapable of being ruffled. Incapable of _passion._ Go on then, pretend it did not happen.”

Finrod knew an impulse to hit that glowing face. He raised his brows in delicate taunting incomprehension.  
“Pretend _what_ did not happen?”

In the adjoining chamber, Fëanor silently laughed. Coldagnir listened to the interplay and wondered why men would ever deny love and closeness.

For one moment, Celegorm looked utterly shocked, then his eyes flamed black in a face gone stark white.

“ _How dare thee?_ ”

“What dost thou want me to remember, cousin?” Finrod asked through the pulse of blood in his ears.

Celegorm knocked his winecup violently from the table. It spun past Finrod and landed in the shadows. He walked out, snapping back the tent flap viciously. Finrod retrieved the cup, closed his hands around it and gripped hard.

“And which of thee will break first I wonder?” Fëanor murmured.

“Whatever thou doth think of my peoples loyalty, _uncle,_ I have a duty as their king. I cannot afford thy son, not unless he and Curufin admit the wrongness of their acts in Nargothrond.”

“They will not do it.” Fëanor struck the table with his fist. “When Beren came to thee and revealed his quest, it woke the Oath from sleep. The Jewels themselves must have quickened in Angband at his words ! Thy pledge forced my sons to act, forced Celegorm to betray one he loved.”

“I know it !” Finrod spoke through his teeth. “That _bloody_ oath touched all with death !”

“The Silmarilli did not doom the Noldor, Námo did ! And I would not recant my oath if I could. _My_ spirit is within them. The Valar said it was the light of the Trees, and knew damned well it was not. They wanted the jewels because they knew what was within them. When they asked me asked me to break them, they _knew_ they were asking me to slay myself. And that is what they wanted, with their hands clean of my blood.” Fëanor threw back his head and laughed in scorn. “Remember thou the words of muscle-brained Tulkas? ' _Speak, O Noldo, yea or nay? But who shall deny Yavannah? And did not the light of the Silmarilli come from her work in the beginning?_ ' Liars ! Aulë understood. And even then, as they waited, Námo was aware that my father had been slain. _And said naught !_ They are unmasked now, but I will see them _nothing_ at the end. Whomsoever sought to hold the Silmarilli sought to hold me. _And I will not be owned !_ ”

Finrod's voice sounded milk-calm in the aftershock of the passion.  
“Then thy sons' sought to own thee. And they died, all but one, trying to reclaim the only part of thee that was left to them.”

Fëanor's eyes drove into his.  
“Yes,” he said. “Wise Finrod. It was never truly about the Silmarilli, that Oath made in madness. I have made other oaths, and one Silmaril waits for me, until thy brother, in his wisdom, judges that I have learned to love others more than myself.”

Finrod gazed back at him, and then, compelled by something he had no name for, he stepped forward and laid a kiss on the beautiful mouth.

“I think thou hast already learned that, uncle. But still thou wouldst command blind love, loyalty and obedience. As Celegorm demands of me. And _I will not be commanded !_ ” He bowed, then turned and left the tent.

~~~

Coldagnir came awake, found himself sitting upright. The room was dark. It was the still time, the deep of night. Then, as the flap was raised, lamplight fell onto the bed. Fëanor looked at him.

“What didst thou dream?” he asked, and came in. The flap fell behind him.

“Utumno. Gothmog...”

“Thou art here, and Gothmog is dead.”

“It is said they will return at the end, with Melkor.”

“I truly hope they do.” Coldagnir heard and saw the smile.

“He said we were always bound, from before Time.”

“Bonds can be severed.” Fëanor knelt.

“Art thou not chained by bonds of fire?”

“Oh, yes. But the fire is rooted in love and in desire. Deeper than blood.”

“So was ours once, Gothmog told me I could never escape him.”

“Yet, here thou art.”

“Yes,” Coldagnir whispered. Then, “What do I look like to thee?”

“Beautiful.” Fëanor's voice was velvet-rich. “Is that what eats at thee? That thou will become what thou once were? I do not believe that. Fear corrupted thee. Fear becomes hate.”

“I almost..changed...”

“But thou didst not. I saw thee. We all heard thy words. I do not fear thee, Coldagnir, therefore I do not hate _thee._ I hate thine actions.”

“But thou doth hate Melkor.”

“Yes.” Fëanors tone became iron. “He tried to _own_ me, control me. As did the Valar.”

“Didst thou fear he could?”

He felt Fëanor's intake of breath, which was held and released slowly.  
“No,” he said at last. “I did not think he could own me or any-one.”

“He owns _my_ soul.”

“He _told_ thee he did. Do not believe so easily. He preyed on thy fears.”

“There were others in the Void, were there not? Others like me?”

“There were dark spirits in the Void, yes,” Fëanor agreed, then, amusedly, “No-one like thee. I understand. Thou art hoping that if thou canst expiate the deeds done in Melkor's service, Eru will own thy soul. What is He like? let me amend that. I do not know if Ilúvatar has a sex.”

“Ilúvatar?” Coldagnir rose abruptly. Fingers closed about his wrist and jerked him back down. “I do not want to think about that time.” In a glass bowl an unlit candle leaped awake.

“It seems to me that even before time began thou didst fear Gothmog, and so all cannot have been well there.”

“N-no. There was...to call it 'time' is not accurate, but it will serve; there was a time when all was well. I was aware of myself as part of the One. All my thought was of Eru. Perhaps it is how a child might feel in its mother's womb, part of her. And then Eru asked us to speak forth out being, our... _desires,_ the essence of what we were.” The candlelight fractured and broke in Fëanor's eyes. “It was as if imagination came into me, and thought. I could not analyze the feeling then, but now I would explain it as Eru _releasing_ me, or some-one lighting a taper from a great fire. The flame is part of the greater and was formed by it, but burns alone.”

“The analogy is fitting,” Fëanor murmured.

“I enacted my being before him, those thoughts that came into my mind. It is called music, but there is no word to describe it.”

“And it was then Melkor thought of discord. And then thou didst begin to fear Gothmog.”

“We became aware of one another, yes. Before, we were part of the whole, and that was Eru. Now we were individuals. We saw one another and marveled, for each was different, yet there were threads of harmony that wove us seamlessly together, as a tree has both roots and stem, branches and leaves, or water may be rain, snow, mist, river or ocean.”

Fëanor turned Coldagnir's face toward him. “And Melkor wove in disharmony,” he said. “And yet, he too proceeded from Eru.The One had freed him to do as he would.”

Coldagnir frowned, for this ran too close to Melkor's own words.  
“He disturbed us, for we saw other things through him. I had thought of fire, seen it as something _good._ Seen myself, I suppose, as something good, because I knew nothing else. Melkor showed me that what I was, could be destructive and terrible.” The fine hands were in his hair, cupping his skull and those eyes saw what he had seen. He found it hard to speak, so close, so exposed. “I held to my being, what I was, through the strife, even though Gothmog's essence overshadowed me. I did fear him then, as he drew closer. I saw things in him I did not understand.”

“These things,” Fëanor breathed into his mouth.

“Yes. _Yes._ ”

“Melkor will not have thee. That is a vow, _Valarauka,_ and so I will hold to it. And thus I hold thee to it, also.” He drew away. “But thou hast given me much to think on. Now rest, and do not fear memory. Embrace it, learn from it, and share it with me.” The kiss was swift, fierce and not a little tender. Coldagnir heard him return to the outer chamber, the soft scratch of quill on parchments. He looked at the candle. It pulsed like his heart.

“ _It was never truly about the Silmarilli,_ ” he whispered. ~

~~~


	56. ~ Cauldron ~

 

 

~ It was a strange night. It felt as if there were a storm breaking somewhere above the frost-gripped stars, or a battle were being waged far away. Fanari said to her son that it reminded her of the winter of Dagor Bragollach when, even behind the walls of the Echoriath, they had known war had burst upon the north.

 _It is the Valar,_ Glorfindel told them. _They are throwing all they can toward us, to turn as many as they can to violence tomorrow. It is relatively weak, and I can shield us, but Fëanor wants this to happen. He wants sedition exposed. It is one thing to disagree with one's lord, one's king; it is human to do so, but those who would cause violence because the Laws of the Valar have been exposed as a lie, have no place here. They came only to foment rebellion, to hurt, to hate, and they rightly belong in Aman._

 _Ironic is it not, that Námo doomed me and all who followed me for kin-slaughter._ Fëanor's response had been sent on an ice-sharp smile.

 _That was the excuse he needed, and after all, we were escaping from them._

And so like snow, the hatred of Manwë, Varda and Námo drifted down onto New Cuiviénen and collided with the seething sun-storm of Glorfindel, the flame that was Fëanor reborn, and the force of the Earth itself. Dana embodied.

~~~

 _Thou canst not hurt him,_ Gil-galad had said, as he had demonstrated how Rosriel could make it look as if she had in truth stabbed Fëanor. But she had seen his eyes. What he truly meant was, _Thou **wilt not** hurt him._

Her attack on the High King would evoke a reaction, and Rosriel was fearful of what might happen, that, despite Glorfindel's reassurance, Varda could provoke her to do harm, or that something in her would snap and she would fall into fury and madness as she had when she had attempted to kill her son.

 _She cannot,_ Glorfindel had said. _Not now she has been uprooted, but I will not tamper with what is in thine own mind. There will be enough people there to disarm thee even if thou wert in earnest, and Fëanor will read the language of thy body._

She felt her heart beating in her throat, and pressed her fingers to the pulse. Gil-galad had gone, since it would look suspicious to any observers if he stayed, and her women were in the outer room. She turned the dagger in her hands, then laid it on the table. It caught the lamplight and winked at her like a cold-eyed conspirator.

Like Borniven.

 _I do not want to do this,_ she thought. _I do not trust myself enough. I do not want to even fake a traitor's part, not now. But I brought them here. Sweet Eru ! they followed me. And if they are not exposed before witnesses, they will cause trouble, as I would have. As I intended to._

She wanted to put that old life entirely behind her, yet she had raised Borniven to detest his high king, her own son, he and others who had formed her court in Lindon. She could not simply disengage herself from what she had done, was not yet able to foist that upon Varda's icy shoulders. She knew that she possessed what she had once referred to as _filthy appetites,_ and it disconcerted her. Her emotions were still raw, unbalanced, and she had to wonder if others felt the same, how many of her court had throttled desire, both for their own sex and the opposite. Borniven had come under her aegis as a youth, with acid words of Glorfindel and Ecthelion, openly lovers in Gondolin: _“Warriors ! They were defeated, and their deaths were just, Lady, a punishment, but almost their lusts destroyed us all !”_  
Would he have been different, more accepting, if she had not poured Varda's poison into his ears? She had believed Fingon's death was deserved, had agreed with Borniven's assessment, and seen in him and apt pupil. Later, when she had heard of Maedhros' self-destruction, she had laughed.

She came to her feet as if some-one had stabbed her, curling away from the remembrance as a leaf from fire. As a normal woman, surely she would have been able to feel a modicum of pity for her husband and his lover after their deaths. But Varda was pitiless. And so. So. With all Borniven had seen, all he had heard from her lips, it was not astonishing he should believe her still capable of murder. She gripped her hands together. She wanted to go down to him now and tell him that she would not do this thing.

 _I do not believe thou wilt need to to anything,_ Dana's earth-rich voice bloomed in her mind. Rosriel stopped, looked up. There was no-one in the room save herself, yet she felt as if she could lean back against the Mother's breasts as she had to her own mother long ago, before she was chosen as a Daughter of Varda.

 _Fëanor is considering an alternative. Thy son has spoken to him, knowing thy reluctance. Still, take the dagger._

~~~

“Thou wilt wait until I call thee,” Fëanor said.

“There is danger.” Coldagnir murmured, and pressed his hands to his head. “The Valar...”

“They are importuning thee?”

“I feel they are trying to, but it is as if they are beating on a shield. They are not as I remember.”

And still, it was an unpleasant sensation.

“Glorfindel will not let thee be used. _And neither will I._ ” Fëanor sat back in the trestle-chair, apparently unaware of the seeming incongruity of his statement: an Elf vowing to protect a Maia. “It is our way to allow all people a voice, from prince to servant. I will not change that law. It is a fair one. I must, therefore, go through the motions of holding a council, so that my people know I am no tyrant. But thou wilt remain with us. I have spoken.”

“I believe thee,” Coldagnir said, because he did. And it went deeper than that. He _knew._ He watched the lamplight stroke the curves and angles of Fëanor's face; beautiful as a worked gem is beautiful, or a deadly weapon, no softness in it. The Valars' assault did not appear to be affecting him in the least, but then Fëanor had always defied the Valar, had never feared them.  
“I did not mean danger to me, although I do not want to hide from the Valar, I wish to deny them, myself.”

“I know. And thou shalt. But this night thou shalt have peace from those fools in Aman.”

“There is danger to thee, and those close to thee.”

Fëanor's eyes shone like a predator's. “Yes. I know.”

~~~

 _She will be safe,_ Tindómion promised.

Gil-galad rested his hands on the table. _Who are they, Istelion, who? We should know ! They would have been part of our court. My mother has given us all the names she can._

 _I have been thinking. Those she told us of are under guard with Borniven._

 _Most, but not all. He must have had his own supporters planted among us._

Tindómion moved about the table and Gil-galad straightened, turning to him.

 _It could go too far._

 _Yet it must be done this way. My grandfather has yet to earn trust._

Gil-galad moved into him, hands sliding over the straight shoulders and gripping.

 _He did this in Mithlond; he forced my mother to expose her malice, or rather Elbereth's malice before many. But they may have weapons, and innocent people may be hurt._

 _So do we have weapons, Gil._

 _I fear for her. I never thought I would say such a thing. And I fear for thine own mother. What is Fëanor planning?_ _I fear for them also, and I do not know._  
Somehow, through the silent torrent of words, their bodies had fused.

 _We will guard them. And, if it comes to it, we will fight together, as we always have._

 _Nárya,_ Gil-galad's mind-voice carried that unique warmth that both caressed and flayed his nerves like a teasingly plied whip. _We were born to be together._ And the meaning in that last word wrung a groan from Tindómion, brought their mouths into scorching, frenzied battle, their fingers wrenching blindly, savagely at the impediment of their clothes. Gil-galad's leg moved about Tindómion's and for one wonderful moment, the Fëanorion thought he would be unbalanced, thrown down on the furs and mastered.

“Excuse me, Sire, Tindómion.” Vórimóro spoke from the inner door.

They came apart, not quickly, hands and eyes still on one another, locked in a balked ferocity of lust.

“What is it?” Gil-galad demanded.

“One of Prince Maglor's men is here,” Vórimóro addressed Tindómion. “Thy father asks to see thee.”

And why dost thou bring that message, when my father's guard could have brought it? the Fëanorion wondered, until he saw precisely why. There was hunger and the intent to assuage it in Vórimóro's eyes. The night was affecting all of them in different ways. Tempers were strained. Some were sorrowful, some quick to anger or weep. Others sequestered themselves with music or reading, or even walked in the bright, bitter night.

Tindómion turned his head back to Gil-galad who gazed at him, and in the silver-blue eyes shone an unmistakable challenge. It was the look of a king who wanted the strongest, most courageous warriors as his companions, and if they peacocked before him, even fought, well and good. It was an almost feminine instinct from an ancient time when women looked for mates who would sire strong children and be able to protect their offspring. Tindómion knew this was still true among Men, but it had also been thus with the Elves. Círdan had told him old tales of the first Cuiviénen, when the demons that walked in the mountains had ambushed the wandering Elves. They had learned to fight for themselves and their kin, and those who honed their warrior skills most adeptly, both men and women, had sometimes battled their way free of those shade-haunting things.

Tindómion suddenly realized that he saw this instinct in Fëanor, in all the kings and princes of the Noldor. They wanted the _best_ around them, and encouraged competition. They _all_ played their people thus, all the Finwii. He had done it himself in Lindon with his own warriors, and it always involved an element of sex, like the hunting hounds Gil-galad had kept who postured before the bitches when they came into heat, and turned, snarling on one another.

Tindómion wanted to snarl now – at Vórimóro, even through he knew that the other was no true rival, that Gil-galad had simply extended the king-knight relationship to ease his needs and that Vórimóro accepted it.

 _I do not know anything has passed between them,_ he had said to his father. _And I have to convince myself that it has not._ Then: _This game we play...I made myself a master at it, after all._

“Tell my father's man I will come in a moment,” he said.

“He waits,” Vórimóro returned.

“ _In a moment,_ ” Tindómion repeated through his teeth.

Vórimóro raised his brows.

“Tell him, Faelfaer,” Gil-galad ordered and, with a bow, Vórimóro went out.

“I will stand beside thee tomorrow,” Tindómion heard his tone as an impossible meld of ice and scalding heat. “Unless thou doth wish to choose another. One closer to thee even than I? One who knows thee _intimately_?”

“Thou bloody fool,” Gil-galad breathed. “Thou knowest me _intimately._ ”

“So does _he,_ and lets none of us forget it.”

“Neither dost thou let any-one forget.”

Tindómion stared.

“In every look, every touch, thou doth declare to all that I am thine, Fëanorion, but without the courage to declare it to _me._ ”

“He is waiting,” Vórimóro said from the tent-flap.

Tindómion spun on one foot and knocked him from his feet. He did not even realize what he had done until his knuckles pained him. He watched Gil-galad's eyes widen in shock, anger – and satisfaction, before he stepped over Vórimóro and stalked out.

~~~

The day was windless. Bright sun molded the land and water into white and blue enamel. The tents of the Noldor were as huge and colorful blooms sprung from the snow. As yet, there was no palace, no great hall where the high council might meet, thus they would sit outside Fëanor's pavilion. From there, the paved path, cleared of snow, ran to the other encampments.  
Furs were spread, braziers lit and chairs brought out. Servants heated metheglin at fires.

They came: Fingolfin, Maedhros, Cúraniel, Finrod with his niece Finduilas, Turgon and Elenwë, and Rosriel. And they came escorted. Fëanor waited as they rode into his encampment, and many followed them.

Glorfindel had spent the night exercising his powers to sift through the thousands of minds, and found resentment and anger against Fëanor in many. He expected that, and knew that most of those would never act on that anger. The more dangerous were those who concealed their feelings, burying them deep with the practice of Ages. Delving into peoples thoughts was still distasteful to Glorfindel, and he did not enjoy the experience. But he was ready.  
They all were.

Borniven walked within a tunnel hemmed by visions. They had flooded him last night, shown him things so repulsive that his flesh wept out the horror in sweat. When some-one passed a dagger to him, he slid it under one sleeve.

 _I will hold. There is an opportunity here._

 _He knows,_ Erestor sent into Glorfindel's mind. _I do not know how, but I was supposed to be at his side today, and he has looked through me as if he could see everything._

 _Manwë,_ Glorfindel replied. _Not a possession as Rosriel endured, I would feel that, but Borniven has long steeped in hatred. He is Manwë's disciple. He sees us the way Manwë sees us. He always has. He is on the very brink. Keep away from him._

Erestor caught the knife one of Glorfindel's own men, clearing the way for the councilors, stealthily handed him.

 _This could end in blood,_ Erestor warned.

 _It very well may,_ Glorfindel agreed.

 _It would be safer to arrest him now. There cannot be more kinslaying, Glorfindel ! And if he is Manwë's disciple..._

 _They use what tools they can. Yes, it would be safer, but then we have no proof of treachery against us._

~~~

The crowds came to a halt, looking up the road to where Fëanor stood under the winter sun to greet the members of his council.

He was the High King. He did not announce his authority; he _was_ the authority, in and of himself. He wore a tunic of amber-colored wool, heavy and fine, girdled at the waist and his hair was drawn back in triple braids. A circlet was on his brow, red-gold and inset with white stones, but he wore no cloak or ring.

 _He does not want anything hindering him if it comes to battle,_ Erestor surmised. Was he not carrying a weapon at all? A knife in his boot? No, they were too well-cut to allow it. Perhaps a wrist sheath. Fëanor would not have come unarmed, however much he trusted Glorfindel's or his sons' or his half-brother; they were all there and, like Fëanor, appeared to be unarmed. The House of Finwë were glorious under the pour of the sun, almost frighteningly vivid. Guards stood motionless, about the encampment, and only they bore visible weapons.

The elevation of Fëanor's camp was high enough and the road and level ground either side provided space enough for many of the onlookers to clearly see Fëanor greet his appointed councilors. Erestor heard murmurs of surprise at some of the choices, Rosriel foremost but also Cúraniel. Glorfindel had not told him of this, and Erestor felt an immense pleasure and pride for his mother. She had arrayed herself in the colors of her husband's house, a black cloak sewn with alternating bands of silver and gold braid, from which small tassels depended. Two warriors escorted her, carrying the banner of the silver harp on a sable ground. She looked regal as she bowed before Fëanor and kissed his hand. She carried her marital lineage with far greater presence than Salgant ever had, and by wearing her husband's livery, Cúraniel pronounced herself as Lady of the House of the Harp. Which meant that both Turgon and Fëanor had officially approved it. It had happened before, after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, after the fall of Gondolin and the Last Alliance, if there were no sons or cousins to wear the mantle of a Great House, but after those battles, the women lead a vastly reduced folk and the honorific meant little.

Erestor was also surprised at Rosriel's companions. He was not the only one. In Lindon, she would have walked between Borniven and himself, but they and the others of her court had either remained in Tol Eressëa, withdrawn their support, or were under guard. It was the richest and most delicious irony that the two Rosriel had hated most savagely in Lindon should be the two who now walked beside her. She had apparently discarded the cold whites and blues she (or Elbereth?) had been wont to wear, and under tawny furs, he glimpsed a green gown. She looked tense, and Gil-galad and Tindómion's faces were at once opaque as marble and clear as dew. Erestor had made a study of these two, after all. There was a smoking, hungry anger between them, and all around him, Erestor felt the tension building. Borniven was at it's core.

 _Some of my men are at thy back,_ Glorfindel told him.

 _My thanks. Why art thou not one of the High Council?_

 _I discussed it with Fëanor. I do not wish it. I must stand apart. It would be too easy to interfere, to try to guide thee, to prevent any harm or hurt coming to any of thee. But that smacks too much of the Valars' control over us in Valinor. All of thee – and I myself – must be free to live, to make our own decisions, whatever comes to pass. I will defend when I may, as when the Balrog was woken, but no life, even this new one, can be without hurt or pain._

Fëanor spoke, in that wonderful voice which carried without effort, and sent a nerve-thrill the length of the spine.  
“People of the Noldor, we now convene for the first council in this, our new land. Certain exceptional circumstances have posed questions and concerns that will be addressed now. As it was, so shall it be in New Cuiviénen: thy kings and princes remain thy lords, and I am High King. All of thee have the right to bring matters to their attention or to mine. All will be heard fairly.” His eyes sparkled across the crowd. “But the old laws of the Valar have been thrown down. They do not exist. _And this fact does not admit of dispute !_ ” His voice came down on them like the edge of a sword. Into the aftermath, he continued, “Let it be known that no man or woman will live under laws that demand they do anything _outside their nature._ ” A small, blood-beating silence, then Fëanor said, sleek as a cat, “There are some here who were put under guard when the Lady Rosriel was released from bondage to Varda. When thou hast sworn allegiance to me thou shalt have a voice here. Those who do not so swear, have no place in this realm and will take ship back to Aman.”

Borniven's veins stood out hard on his hands and temples. He struggled to contain his hatred, for he _must_ control himself until the moment came. Rosriel was not going to strike at Fëanor. She had already been corrupted, and she too must die.

 _I must use cunning._

He had not expected this. He had planned to begin a skirmish that his followers would join, one that would bring the Finwions' down into it, for one thing he was sure of, was that they would intervene. Almost all of them had been slain in battle. They would not stand idly by and let others fight for them. In the confusion he could get close to one of them, strike a blow, perhaps more than one. It was a risk, of course, but if he died he was assured a place with the Valar. So Manwë himself had promised him.

Borniven had _wanted_ to leave Tol Eressëa. All of Rosriel's adherents had, and not because it had disappointed their expectations. The Lonely Isle was as he had imagined. It was not be to thought that he, or any of those who chose to return, could pass immediately to Valinor, Manwë had told him, though exceptions were made in the case of the sons of Finarfin, whom had ever been loyal to the Valar. But one day, Borniven had been promised, as he knelt in awe, he might stand even upon Taniquetil.

He had bowed and thanked the Vala and dwelt upon Tol Eressëa, where men and women lived as they should, holding to the laws, mild and peaceful and grave. He, and those who had followed Rosriel, gathered and spoke of the fate of the damned, and there was great satisfaction to be had in that. But there was no-one to hate, and there were still those in Middle-earth who defied the laws. Borniven wanted to see them fall. When Valinor was opened like a nut by the ill-gotten son of Sauron, when both he and Glorfindel had been raised to Powers, and the laws had been publicly scorned, it actually pleased him, for again, he had something to fight, something visible to hate. He would return to Middle-earth to renew his war against unrighteousness with the blessing of Manwë on him.

 _“Do anything thou canst to strike a blow against this new evil,”_ the Vala had said. _“And thou shalt be rewarded.”_

But Borniven remembered fear; the fear he had felt in Gondolin, and when war came to Eriador, the fear that warriors like Glorfindel, Gil-galad and Tindómion put into him. He had never seen Fëanor, or Fingolfin or their sons, and when he did, he knew his task would be hard. He had always scorned the arts of war. Warriors had their uses: they allowed the scholars and councilors to do their work in peace, and if they died, well, such things happened to those who embraced violence, as the doomed line of the high kings proved. So he told himself, and so he believed, and yet he feared them. But what he had seen was not to be borne. Erestor ! Why had not Manwë showed him that deception? He had suspected, but his dreams this last night confirmed it in all it's vileness. Ah, but the Lord of the Breath of Arda was merciful. No doubt he had hoped Erestor would indeed repent. But he, Rosriel herself and the others, were mired so deep in the trough of sin, that they could never be pulled from it. They had to die.

Fëanor shone poisonously to Borniven's eyes. There was the one from whom all unholiness seeped. He was the very seed of it and from him had grown a monstrous tree that must be cut down. And now, Borniven could get close to him to him. He sensed the others of his cadre behind him. They would act when he did. His eyes flicked about, saw Glorfindel, his Silvan lover, Fanari, ever his enemy. Ecthelion and Penlod stood behind Turgon and Elenwë, Maglor and Celegorm had escorted Maedhros and a woman the murmurs identified as Tinudir, wife of Faerbol, one of Maedhros' knight-captains. Those murmurs also speculated that Fingolfin stood alone because a place was saved for his daughter when she came to New Cuiviénen. Aegnor and Gwindor were with Finrod and Finduilas. Warriors all, but Borniven could see no arms, and the mightiest warrior could be slain, had that not been proved time and again? A movement snatched his eyes to Fëanor's pavilion. A figure stood in the shadow of the entrance, and Borniven felt a brush against his skin as of warmth on a cold day. The Balrog. He remembered the terror of falling Gondolin. They were mad ! The demon should have been slain. He swallowed through a dusty throat as metal-bright eyes met his.

Fëanor said, unexpectedly, “Lady?”

A woman walked into view. She was tall, veiled from head to feet, white over blood-red, the fine material clinging to a head that was dark. Black. Black skin. What was this? Borniven wondered. His guts turned over at the reek of power from her. He smelled musk and turned earth, hearth-smoke and incense.

She held a dagger across her palms. This was no knife of jeweled steel, or even bronze; it was flint, one of the oldest tools of both Elves and men.

“In the presence of the Mother,” Fëanor said. “I invoke the Blood-kiss Oath.”

And this time, the silence had the weight of the Earth.

 

~~~

 


	57. ~ Blood-Kiss ~

“Thou hast heard of this?” Vanimórë asked.

The sky lay high and ash-grey over Dale. The days after the solstice remained cold and snowbound, though both Vanimórë and Elgalad smelled a thaw coming.

If Vanimórë, who had beaten his character into steely patience over the ages could be restless, then he was restless. There was no other word to fit the mood that took him out of the town, hunting or simply walking, but Elgalad thought he understood. Vanimórë had rarely had leisure to be idle. It was not in his nature to rest. He drove himself hard and now, free of Sauron and with godlike powers, he was adrift. In a way, albeit a terrible one, Sauron had been his anchor. Elgalad did not say anything, but when the violet eyes rested on him, a smile warming them, he knew Vanimórë had sensed his thoughts, and then would come a caress, a kiss, too quickly broken for Elgalad's liking, but not brief either, and not chaste.

“I have h-heard of it, yes,” he said.

“I had not.”

They had followed the river, passing the south-facing spur of Ravenhill and the land lay muted under the calm cold sky. Far in the west, Eryn Lasgalen showed dark. Vanimórë folded his arms, and Elgalad watched the ripple and swell of taut muscle under leather and was helplessly, violently aroused.

“After the L-Last Alliance,” he said, a little breathless. “Although so m-many were lost, some of th-the Silvan Elves who returned with Thranduil swore it. H-he and his father h-had been willing to d-die for them, and so t-they asked to swear upon it, so L-Legolas told m-me. I promised to t-tell no-one, and did n-not.”

Vanimórë gazed east unblinking, then suddenly he turned his head and smiled blindingly at Elgalad, as if he knew exactly what he was feeling. And of course, he did.  
“My dear,” he said.

“My l-lord.”

“I feel the same. Every moment. Every _heartbeat,_ ” Vanimórë murmured. “Whatever may happen to us, believe it. Believe _this._ ” His kiss left Elgalad burning. “And thou art right. I am restless, and it is true I am a little unmoored. It is not that alone though. It is something else. And thou art a distraction in thyself.”

Elgalad laughed softly, but with delight. He knew he was meant to be here, that he had been _born_ to love Vanimórë. And he hoped, despite Vanimórë's refusal to physically make love, that in time, he would, because it was natural and right, and Elgalad was there beside him. And he tempted Vanimórë deliberately. He could not help it.

“I will not go to New Cuiviénen.” He drew Elgalad back against him, and the impress of his arousal was maddening and wonderful. “They do not need me, and it might worsen matters.”

“What will h-happen?”

“I do not know.” A smile curled into his voice. “Fëanor cannot exile any-one without just cause. He wants to have them expose themselves. It is a risk.” Then, in a different tone, he murmured, “Thou didst fight here.”

Elgalad turned his head against Vanimórë's face and looked up at the craggy mountain-spur. Far above, a watchtower loomed, rebuilt by the Dwarves after they reclaimed Erebor.

“Yes. Didst th-thou know, my L-Lord?”

“Not until after. I feared for thee when I learned of it. I was afraid thou wert dead, but I felt thy soul, and knew thou wert still alive.”

Elgalad glowed with an uprush of almost protective love.  
“We were pushed b-back.” he went on. “They fought h-here, those who had t-taken that oath. Most of them fell h-here. They put themselves b-before the orcs and the king.”

Vanimórë nodded, kissed his hair. “It is a dangerous oath,” he mused at last. “Thou wert ready to die.”

“It was a grim b-battle.”

“I learned long after. There were few survivors. The outcome did not please Sauron. He could have used that dragon. They do not easily serve any master, but he would have bent it to his will.” His arms tightened. “Wait,” he whispered, and threw his mind outward.

~~~

The Blood-kiss was ancient, long predating the Great Journey and Oromë's discovery of the Elves. It was a complex, wild thing, and the Elves of Valinor had no need of it, indeed it survived only in the oath of Allegiance every man and woman swore to their lords when they were of age, and in the clan-structure of all the Great Houses. But the Blood-kiss ran deeper even than that loyalty, which in itself was near-sacred, and why Glorfindel's decision to disown himself from the House of Finarfin had been unprecedented, resulting in his genealogy being expunged from the Noldorin records. It had survived, surprisingly, in the Vanyarin genealogies. Ingwë had never had it removed.

The Blood-kiss bound both lord and subject equally, and it had been recognized both among the Noldorin Exiles, the Sindar and the Avari, as the only true pardon for traitors. In the wars of the First Age, Elves unfortunate enough to be captured and taken as thralls to Angband, occasionally escaped. The Noldor came to mistrust them, for some were sent by Morgoth as spies, or to sew discord among the Eldar. They did not willingly serve Morgoth, but he held their minds and even when they were free they returned to him. Those who escaped in truth were often driven away from their lords and lands and wandered alone and friendless. Thus the Elves remembered the Blood-kiss, which was so sacred it was sworn upon Arda itself, upon the Mother. It was said that at the moment of swearing, both Elves would feel the soul of the other, seeing both truth and falsehood.  
Even so, it had been invoked but a few times. Gwindor of Nargothrond had taken the oath after his return from thralldom.

“Once, in anguish, I swore an oath that damned even those then unborn, both Elves and Men.” Fëanor drew the flint blade across his left palm and lifted it so that the line of blood showed bright across his flesh. “We know the potency of oaths. And now I stand upon the bosom of the Earth. Let Her hearken unto us and hear our vows and bind us with blood and loyalty.”

Fingolfin came first, taking the knife, running it across his own hand. Fëanor lifted his half-brother's hand to his mouth, Fingolfin lifted Fëanors. They pressed their lips to the blood, eyes meeting, and then stepped close and kissed.

Fingolfin tasted sweet copper, wine and something he had no name for. If the soundless invisible heat at the heart of a furnace had a taste, this was it. All of Fëanor's terrible and beautiful love was there, and a passion that could break the heart.

Fëanor's lips parted, found the sweet, steely fire of his half-brother, the core of radiant courage that had not broken, had not faltered – truly not faltered – even as he fought Morgoth, and died hard and in despair. He felt the loyalty and the chivalry, the loneliness that is the especial privilege of kings, the strength of his love and the place where it crossed swords with his own, where it held as two warriors hold, before they yield – or kill.

“Blood and loyalty bind thee,” Dana pronounced, and her voice was deep, whispering through the rush of blood in the veins.

 _We need no deeper bonds between us, half-brother in blood, full brother in heart. But dost thou not know I would give my life for thee?_ Fëanor smiled as Fingolfin stepped back, eyes wild and brilliant. And no, he had not known that, had believed all the love and loyalty ran one way, into the furnace that he had tasted.

One by one they came, giving the Blood-kiss, and Fëanor tasted each one, even as they tasted him. Rosriel seemed to pause for a heartbeat, but when she moved back to her place, she held her face high and proud. She settled her bliaut over her arm in one sweeping motion like the ending of an argument.

“My High Council is bound to me and I to them,” Fëanor said. “Their griefs are my griefs. Their joys are my joys. I will fight for them, suffer for them, and die for them. And if Blood-kiss be broken, may the Dark take me for eternity.” There was no irony in his tone. He turned his head in an arrogant, lovely gesture.  
“Erestor, son of Salgant and Cúraniel of the House of the Harp. A place is reserved for thee upon the High Council. Wilt thou swear the Oath?”

“I will, Sire,” Erestor felt the hatred on his back like a blow as he walked across to Fëanor.

The screams rose in Borniven's head until he thought his skull would crack open with the effort of swallowing them. He saw too clearly. The colors burned at his eyes, and Fëanor was in the center of them, dragging the eye and mind like slaughter.

“All of thee know,” Fëanor turned to the gathering. “That a Balrog was woken in the mountains, woken by the Valar to come down upon us and do us harm. Glorfindel dueled with it. We bore witness to the battle and to the demon's changing. He desires to live free and and to make requital for his deeds in Morgoth's service. He was one of those sent out to slay me; he cast his whip about Fingon at the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He slew in Gondolin. Yet I myself and Fingon have both elected to spare his life.”

Murmurs pushed up out of that stone-quiet.

“Lady,” Fëanor said to the Mother. “Our forebears who swore on the Blood-kiss knew not the Valar. In their world, only two Powers walked Middle-earth. Melkor, and thou. They swore upon the earth, upon thee.”

Dana lifted her veil. Not an Elf there that doubted whom and what she was. From the moment Elbereth had been cast from her servant, Rosriel, and the Mother had come, word had spread. They _felt_ her. Most had never even known of her, but there were tales and the etched tracing of memories older than the oldest of them. They were children of the world and their souls knew her. They loved the earth and Dana, the Earth, loved them. So they called Arda, _she,_ they called storms and oceans, rivers and seasons _she,_ in recognition of her and her double-edged power. They had invoked her in the rites of the Blood-kiss and she was not a Power one could cross.

“The Blood-kiss calls upon me, Fëanor,” she agreed with something like appreciation in the back of her well-dark eyes.

“And does the oath bind even the Powers?”

Her lips turned up a little. “Even so.” And there was blood and honey in her voice.

“Then the one who was a Balrog shall swear the Oath and it will bind him.”

Fëanor reached out his hand to Coldagnir.  
 _Come to me,_ he commanded.

The watching Elves were held silent by the awe wrought by the oath, by Dana, by Fëanor, and now by Coldagnir as he moved into the merciless sunlight. Fëanor had thrown open a clothes-chest and chosen a fir-green tunic for him to wear. His hair rippled like dark flame against it. He looked exceedingly beautiful.

“Sire,” he said now, trying to keep his voice level. “Thou must know that all servants of Melkor swore an oath to him.”

A stirring at that. Coldagnir watched the light behind the gemfire eyes shift and gleam like the sun playing over frost.

“And what is the punishment for breaking that oath?”

Coldagnir took a breath, could not answer.

“Morgoth Bauglir is gone into the Void and thou hast said he claims thy soul. What else could he do to thee? And I have told thee I will not let him have thee.” Fëanor lifted his brows. “Let this oath negate thine old one.”

Dana endorsed his words with an inclination of her head.

Coldagnir took the knife, felt its cold bite, then Fëanor's lips on the cut, his on the High King's. He tasted what he knew would be there, in the blood, in the kiss that followed. The power in the ritual shattered his fragile composure. He quivered at the monumental gravity of it, and his hair flowed like liquid fire.

 _He has bound me to him, and bound himself to me._ And Coldagnir knew that the others felt it as he did, that something had passed from him to Fëanor, from Fëanor to him, as it had with each person who had sworn the oath.

And still no-one said a word. The council had been called because of him, yet the high king had rendered all arguments null and void by invoking the Blood-kiss.

Borniven heard his name called. He moved slowly along the path cleared for him.

 _I swore an oath to Manwë. Whatever I say to this heretical swine means nought. I just have to be close to him..._

Fëanor watched him come, felt the spontaneous shift of tension in his sons, in Glorfindel, Fingolfin, in Fingon, in Finrod, in Gil-galad and Tindómion.

Borniven's face writhed, and his mouth worked as if he were speaking to himself or answering internal voices. His eyes seemed to try to dart away from Fëanor's and then snapped back. They were wide and black and the hate in them was rank as an opened grave. Fëanor smelled it in the man's sweat, saw it in the way his nostrils flared as he drew closer.

“Lady Rosriel,” Fëanor did not look away. “This man was one of thine, before thou wert freed. Tell me: what was the purpose of thy coming here, when thou didst know that we would live as we desired, not bound to the old laws.”

He watched her stiffen, thinking of the taste of her blood, deep warmth and a temper, intelligence and laughter under the confusion of Varda's long possession. There was no ease in her, no liking for him, but there was an acceptance, a desire to remain here, to learn what she could be. She would be loyal rather than return to Aman.

“We came,” she said, clear and passionless, “To rally more people to our cause, to bring thee down. One way or another.”

“Even if that meant kin-slaughter?”

A sound like a wind passed across the crowd. Rosriel rose and drew a knife from her furs.  
“This was handed to me in the confusion of thy return Sire, with a note from Borniven, telling me to strike he whom I hated, for Varda would return to me in glory.”

“He wanted thee to slay Fingon?” Fëanor looked across to where his nephew stood.

“So I read it, yes.”

“And I said I would take the blade, for whom didst thy father, who pushed thee into marriage, hate more than I? And I am High King. It is meet for me to do so.”

She inclined her head.

“Thou wilt note she did not strike when she was close,” Fëanor said to Borniven.  
Whose face was livid.

“I have that note, Borniven. Thou canst deny its provenance if thou wilt, and no doubt some would say _I_ could easily have written it myself, could have arranged this to lay false charges against thee.” He smiled, and now he was not talking to Borniven, but to those behind him, flanked by guards, and the secret, dangerous supporters scattered among the crowd.  
“So: thou didst come to _bring me down,_ I and others who share my _unholy desires?_ What hast thou been doing, spying, listening to two men, or two women, making love, when it sickens thee, and yet that is part of thy duty, is it not, to bear witness to monstrous practices? I pity thee that onerous task.”

Borniven shaped words. His hands made strange, clawing gestures.

“Those who will swear to me, may stay, living their own lives and allowing others to live theirs. For it is _not_ thy duty to decree how any man or woman find their pleasures, or to ride guard on them ! No-one will be persecuted here. Not even thee.” And he dropped the last word contemptuously. “So thou, Borniven, shall swear to me now, or depart.”

Dana held the flint knife across her palms. She was a presence. They all were. Borniven felt them as power and heat on his skin.

He saw himself take the blade, and heard himself screaming.

There was a harsh whisper of steel as every man and woman drew knives. Swords slid into the guards hands.

Fëanor sent one blow into Borniven's gut, locked his fingers about the wrist that held the knife, and slammed the heel of his other hand into the man's head. It was so fast that the three movements, perfectly executed, seemed as one, and Borniven fell, concussed by the force.

The crowd was heaving below, people struggling against one another. Curses and cries rose to the knoll. And from it.

“Fëanor ! _Hold !_ ”

The voice came from behind him.

There was a knife at Celegorm's throat, one at Maglor's, at Finrod's and at Tindómion's. The Council had broken from their circle at Borniven's madness and there came the clash of weapons.

“Hold.” The one who spoke sounded calm. “No man move. No woman either. I know thou canst kill me, but I also know Glorfindel will not permit it.”

Glorfindel leashed his power and snapped shut his teeth.

“Hold,” he agreed. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always write Vanimórë and the Elves as practicing a form of Martial Arts.


	58. ~ The Treachery of Kin ~

  
~ The stillness impacted like silent thunder. Orodreth's lips curled back from his teeth in defiance.  
“As I said, thou canst kill me, but before my knife cuts his throat? Before my men can move? It is very easy to kill swiftly, if one knows where to strike. And unlike that fool there,” a flick of his eyes at Borniven. “I do know how to use a dagger. Wilt thou risk it?”  
When no-one spoke, he made a sound of satisfaction and derision commingled. “That really is the weak rivet in the armor of this damned family. Thou doth trust those of thine own blood too easily. And where did trust lead us?” He spat at Fëanor. “To betrayal. To the ice of the Helcaraxë. To war and death ! But thou, Glorfindel. I thank thee for thy trust. Thou wert looking for danger in the wrong place.”

“We saved thy life, traitor !” Curufin shouted.*

Orodreth's cheeks grew temper-blooms. It was true, though he did not want or need to be reminded of it. The brothers', leading all the people they could gather, had been weary and worn when errand-riders from Tol Sirion had come upon them. The soldiers had been heading for Nargothrond, but Celegorm and Curufin, hearing of Orodreth's plight, had taken half of their able-bodied warriors up Sirion, sending the rest south to Nargothrond. They had met Orodreth retreating, the enemy in pursuit and had given battle, driving the orc army back. Neither then nor after had Finrod reproached his brother, but some murmured that Orodreth should have held longer, allowing his people to escape, for many Elves had been slain or captured when Tol Sirion was over-run, men and women both. One of those women had been called Móriel, she whom had borne Vanimórë and his twin sister.

“And thou wert greeted as _heroes_ in Nargothrond, given all the honor Finrod could bestow on thee, save himself and the throne. _Which thou didst well-nigh take !_ Do not speak to _me_ of treachery !”

The space beyond Fëanor's tent was filled with motionless figures, weapons in hands that had locked on the hilts. Beyond them, the onlookers had drawn back from groups of Orodreth's men who stood in circles, swords and daggers drawn.

“What dost thou hope to gain by this?” Fëanor asked. Too mildly. And Orodreth knew it was too mild, felt the threat there. He increased the pressure so that a hair-thin red line opened on Celegorm's throat. Some-one groaned in prohibition. Celegorm did not move.

“Perhaps just the satisfaction of outwitting my brothers,” Orodreth said with cool vindictiveness. “Perhaps just to tell them how I truly feel. And after, thou shalt let me go, me and my people. And I know that once we are gone, thou couldst move against us, but thou wilt not. Glorfindel will never countenance it.”

“ _Why,_ brother?” Finrod demanded.

“What, does not Glorfindel not know?” Orodreth mocked. “I am sure he does.”

 _He is not as calm as he seems,_ Fëanor flashed to Glorfindel.

_I know it._

But he had some bravery, there was no denying it, to do this thing before Dana, before Glorfindel, an Oath-sworn Maia – and Fëanor.

“Yes,” Glorfindel said. “I do know. Thou wert ever jealous of thy brothers'.”  
And those brothers had not joined his defection. Angrod and Aegnor were staring at him in bewildered rage, and it was clear from Finduilas' face that she had known nothing of this beforehand. She had run clear of the warrior who would have caught her, whirling with a knife in her hand. Gwindor – Gwindor whom had emerged from Angband aged and broken, and was now fair and strong – had stepped between she and Orodreth's man. Finduilas had turned again and was looking at her father, slim brows drawn hard.

Glorfindel continued inflexibly, “When I left our father's house, thou didst seek to replace me in Finrod's heart. Oh, I remember thy _pity,_ Orodreth, thine assurances that nothing had changed between us, but in fact thou wert pleased. I never knew why thou didst mislike our closeness, for we loved thee – all of us. Then, when we came to Middle-earth, thou didst not, like Aegnor and Angrod make a kingdom for thyself, but cleaved to Finrod, who gave thee Tol Sirion. Thou didst hope to be king of Nargothrond when Morgoth broke our leager, hoped Finrod had been slain, but when he lived, expected at the least that he would formally declare thee his heir.”

“He had no son. I _was_ the rightful heir, with thou gone into Gondolin !”

Celegorm stared across at Finrod, who looked back. Both were holding themselves still as stone, muscles clenched and both knew the other was waiting for any opportunity to break free.

“I came to Nargothrond, and found myself overlooked in favor of _kinslayers,_ ” Orodreth said. “Do not think, Finrod, that I did not know how often thou wert alone with _this._ ” And as the blade caught the sun, Curufin exclaimed on a bite of air, “No !”

“If thou doth harm him, I care not whose brother thou art, Orodreth, I will pull out thy damned heart and make thee eat it.” Fëanor promised. Orodreth opened and closed his mouth.

“Thou couldst have gone without this treachery,” Glorfindel interposed quickly. “No-one would have stopped thee.”

“I do not take orders from thee,” his brother snarled. “I came for our father, the only true king of the Noldor I shall ever recognize. I came for him, hoping that in time thou wouldst see how ill-used he has been by his children. He charged me with that task and I took it willingly. But I have seen that it will be as it was in Beleriand. Thou doth act as if thou hast no father, when thou shouldst be at his feet begging his forgiveness !” He thrust hate at Finrod. “But yes, I could have gone without this, and would, save for two things: Thou who wert betrayed by this one, hast thou no pride? The greatest of thine acts was to die and leave me the throne !”

Anger rose like heat-haze from the the Noldor, but no-one spoke. Those daggers were too close to the throats of people they loved. Rosriel had gone to Fanari's side. Gil-galad watched Tindómion, eyes unblinking, as if willing him not to endanger himself.

“The only way thou couldst have come to a throne is by the death of another !” hissed Celegorm recklessly. “Like thy father, thou didst come to a throne by default !”

It seemed for a moment as if Orodreth would slice open his throat.  
 _Be silent, thou damned fool !_ Finrod hurled into his cousin's mind and saw Celegorm's jaw clench, the lustrous dark eyes close.

“I ruled Nargothrond well !” Orodreth cried.

“So _well_ that Nargothrond became a byword for secrecy and stealth,” Caranthir lashed at him, catching his brother's fey mood. “So _well_ that thou didst not come out to battle when my brother made the Union of Maedhros, save Gwindor and his folk alone. People said it was because of my brothers' acts there, but surely a _king_ should have put that aside, seen the whole of Maedhros' vision, seen that we needed every warrior we could muster ! No,” he went on, as a feral growl gathered in Orodreth's throat, and Finrod thought, _Caranthir, thou art mad to goad him so !_  
“Thou hadst thy kingdom and would not risk anything taking it from thee” Caranthir forged on remorselessly. “Thou didst rule Nargothrond so _well_ that it took a Man, Túrin son of Húrin to make thy people remember what they were. A Mortal proved stronger metal than an Aman-born Elf, and though his councils were foolhardy and arrogant thou didst let him do as he wished for it was less effort than arguing ! Thou didst always fall under the sway of those of stronger mind than thee, Orodreth !”

“ _That is enough !_ ” his father slammed out, and almost too late. Perhaps only he could have halted Caranthir's tirade. And had not.

“Release them and leave.” Glorfindel's words vibrated with rage.  
There were ways to stop his brother and all his men. Some of them were agonizing, others unnatural. He was walking on a knife-edge, gambling that Orodreth knew that if any of his captives were harmed, he would put himself beyond mercy.  
 _I cannot slay my brother._ But was that the price power exacted, such dreadful choices? and the ability to make those choices?

“No.” Orodreth shook his head. “We will take them as hostages. When we are clear of this place we will leave them. Thou wilt not follow, any of thee. And Glorfindel, thou wilt tell that foul get of Sauron's not to meddle.”

He was enjoying this, Finrod saw, this power that he had seized. Save for his stewardship of Tol Sirion, he had had little before Finrod's death, this brother who was most like Finarfin. Orodreth was not the cloth from which war-kings are cut, Caranthir was right. He had never been interested in the work that was a requisite of true kingship, and believed it should be delegated. As a prince he had always preferred to let his councilors deal with 'mundane' matters, as he termed them. Ruling a Nargothrond that was hidden like a precious gem would have suited him. And then Túrin had come and almost effortlessly taken charge of the army. Yes, he had been arrogant and cursed, but his will, his passion had drawn people to him, leaving Orodreth with little to do but enjoy his crown.  
Until Glaurung came.

He had truly never known how deep ran Orodreth's jealousy, or how adept he was at concealing it. Finrod would have said – and truly – that he loved all his siblings, but there are measures of love, and Orodreth, aloof, sometimes disdainful, did not evoke the fierce love Glorfindel did, or the fiery Aegnor and Angrod.

He shifted his eyes to Glorfindel, could feel the seething power there, and it was hardly less in Fëanor. Dana stood as if divorcing herself from the matter, but her power burned _down._ Into the earth.

“Go now.” Fëanor made it a command. “I said a thing, Orodreth, and thou knowest I take no Oath lightly. Harm any of them and I will have thy heart out.” He turned. “Clear the road !”

Orodreth said: “Wait.” There was no power in his voice. It sounded sapless coming in the wake of Fëanor's resonance. “I shall swear not to harm them, upon any power thou doth name. But I said there were two reasons for mine actions here. The one disgusts me: I saw Finrod return from the island with this traitorous dog. I needed no words to tell me what had happened that night ! He betrayed himself and worse, his very name ! Thou hast indeed soiled the House of Finarfin and will be cast out of it, wise, _beloved_ Finrod. I call on all who own thee as lord to come with me. I return to Valinor. And I will take the Silmaril.”

Glorfindel looked at Fëanor. Every-one looked at him, and the silence was like a glass bowl holding the weight of a summer storm. He did not move. Orodreth's eyes flicked aside, and there were many there who closed their own eyes for a moment, believing this was a sentence of death on the captives. Fëanor's oath to reclaim the Silmaril had touched all of them.

And he felt their thoughts.

 _It was never about the Silmarilli._ He remembered his own words to Coldagnir. No wonder Orodreth's men had taken his sons and Tindómion. Maedhros stood clear, for Maglor and Celegorm had been standing at his shoulder and come between the soldiers like shields. Orodreth's soldiers, who had been part of the perimeter guard had maneuvered themselves into position behind the High Council, whereas Fëanor's own guards had stood facing the crowd.

“Fëanor does not have the Silmaril,” Glorfindel said. “I hold it for him.”

“I did not think he did have it, or he would surely have been flaunting it. Go and get it, _Golden One._ ”

“Thou wilt take it to the Valar.”

“I will give it to my father.”

“Whom will give it to the Valar.”

“Fëanor could never have made the Silmarilli had it not been for the light of the Trees. It belongs in Valinor.”

Fëanor was frighteningly still. The emotion within him was too intense to be called fury, to be given any name in any tongue. No-one but he could truly understand what he had given of himself to create the Silmarilli, or the pain and passion of their making. He suffered Glorfindel's wardship of the one because he could feel it close, and neither did he hate the warder. He could give of himself and willingly, but would not permit any-one to _take._ Another graced the night skies and he did not begrudge it as a light in the darkness, or not yet, he could caution himself. The third was lost in the earth. Those two, earth and air, he could not reclaim, but at the least they were not owned by any-one, especially not the Valar, who had always coveted them. He heard the brothers words distantly; he looked at Celegorm and then at Maglor, whom had said nothing aloud, and nothing into his mind. It was all in his eyes.

Maglor thought he would refuse.

The realization was like a sudden, fatal wound.

His voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, as he said, “Bring it.”

Glorfindel's reaction was unfeigned shock and a mental salutation.

“Legolas,” he murmured.

Legolas spun and broke into a sprint, down from the camp, across the snow, fleet as a hart.

“Thou wilt swear,” Fëanor continued in that same strange voice. “Upon the Mother.”

Orodreth did not like that, it was very clear.

 _Unlike Finarfin, he has no great love for the Valar,_ Glorfindel thought. _No; it is his father he truly believes in._

“Thou wilt have no Blood-kiss,” he warned, and Dana, for the first time, turned those dark, dark eyes upon him.

“I need it not.”

“The Silmaril, Orodreth,” Fëanor reminded him, pressing him now.

“I swear.”

“The man who breaks an oath sworn on my name is mine,” Dana said. “That man I claim, and forever. Remember it.”

Orodreth looked away.

Legolas was very fast. He passed through the crowd carrying the casket and halted beside Glorfindel, who took it and briefly opened it so that Orodreth might see that he was not being cheated.  
A brilliant light splintered prisms from the snow, the air itself for a heartbeat before Glorfindel shut and locked the box. When he looked at Fëanor, those eyes were twin gems, and his face glowed with a rage and anguish so terrible Glorfindel thought the earth might crack under his feet.

“Go,” he said.

Orodreth had planned for this. In the distance horses were waiting, some laden with supplies and belongings. Mounted men cantered to meet their prince, and under the cover of drawn arrows, the hostages were set upon mounts and their hands bound. Soldiers flowed into position around them, weapons drawn.

_It is very easy to kill swiftly, if one knows where to strike._

Yes.

“Hells,” Caranthir whispered. “Glorfindel, canst thou not kill them?”

“Wouldst thou kill one of thine own brothers?” Glorfindel lashed.

And still no-one spoke to Fëanor. No-one came near him until Maedhros stepped into his line of sight and laid a hand on his arm.

“Adar – ”

“The Silmaril,” Fingon said, quick and quiet. “Will it not burn him?”

“Fëanor permitted him to have it,” Glorfindel said. “And he has not done anything. Yet.”

Caranthir was swearing bitterly, inventively. Curufin said, “I do not trust him, he could kill them in a heartbeat ! Glorfindel...!”

“Do not _dare_ to ask me to harm my own brother !” _Unless there is no other way._

“Wilt thou do nothing then? We _have to go after them !_ ”

“They are heading south to the estuary,” Legolas said and swore himself in the supple Silvan tongue. Some of the Teleri had remained there and were building a port. “Will the mariners take them?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “They may. Most have no love for Fëanor. They agreed to sail any back to Tol Eressëa who wished to go. If Círdan were here...” But he was not. The shipwright remained in Mithlond. “It does not matter,” he spoke through a hard-set mouth. “We will get the captives back, and the Silmaril too.”

“If we interfere – ” began Turgon.

“I am gambling that Orodreth will know how far to go.”

“Thou art gambling on our brothers' lives !” Curufin snarled. “What _use_ is thy power?”

“I did not say I would do nothing.” Glorfindel pinned him with light-burning eyes. “Finrod is there too ! Orodreth did not,” he added, “Make me swear upon anything. He was too eager to be gone.”

 _Wilt thou tell me not to interfere?_ Vanimórë asked with a tinge of amusement.

_I neglected to inform him I do not command thee._

_An oversight, I am sure. What is thy plan?_

_I will follow, of course. I do not want to hurt him, if there is any other way, but all of us here know the power in the Silmarilli._

There was a moment of silence, before Vanimórë said, _Thou didst know of this._

_Yes._

_And told no-one._

_No. We needed treachery uncovered, and we needed proof._  
Glorfindel turned to Fëanor, whose face was frightening in its very lack of expression. It was all in his eyes, under his skin.

“Do not tell me thou didst not know of Orodreth's intentions.”

“Dost thou think I would overlook even my own brothers?”

“My sons lives, my grandson's – _I swear before Ilúvatar, Glorfindel..._ ”

Fingolfin moved to his side. “Trust him.”  
There was something in Fëanor that he did not recognize, and then his own heart gave him the answer: it was fear. Fear for Maglor, for Celegorm and Tindómion. He had never seen Fëanor afraid, and this was not for himself.

“Fingolfin is wise.” Dana spoke for the first time. “Have faith. Perhaps he would not harm his hostages, but anyhow, he is oath-bound.”

She had known also, Fingolfin thought. “What do we do?” he asked.

“Riding over snow is a risk at night,” she replied. “I think they will make camp at nightfall. And then we shall see what may be done. Perhaps we will have to do nought. The Silmaril is as potent as its maker.” She came to Fëanor then, irresistible and powerful, calm and dangerous, and touched his face. “Some,” she went on, “are surprised in thee. I am not.”

“I cannot do _nothing_ !” he whispered, fire and steel.

“Thou _art_ doing something,” she smiled. “The traitor has a Silmaril.” She walked away to where Rosriel stood with Fanari, whose hand was at her throat in the age-old expression of a woman in grief or fear.

Fëanor stared after her, then looked at Maedhros, at Fingolfin, and Glorfindel.

“He thought I would refuse.” He raised his head to the sky and laughed in an agony of shame and pain. “Maglor thought I would let him die rather than give up a Silmaril.”

The silence was his answer.

“How couldst thou think that?” he asked Maedhros and still his voice was quiet. It hurt to breathe through the fire.

“Father,” Maedhros met his eyes. “How could I not?”

~~~

~ It was in a saddlebag beside him. He felt its presence, stronger than a winter fire, brighter than the sun now slipping behind a bank of cloud in the south. It spoke to him of glory, of a throne greater than Nargothrond or Barad Eithil, or the Noldorin palace under Mindon Eldaliéva's mighty shadow.  
But he was taking the Silmaril to Finarfin.  
Of course. ~

 

 

~~~~

 

If any-one has read and liked anything, thank-you. 

The series is continued in **_Magnificat of the Damned: Book II ~ The Fires of Fate._**

 

**_  
_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Canonically, Tol Sirion/Minas Tirith held for two years after the Dagor Bragollach. The time-frame is changed in this AU, mainly because of Vanimórë. I think myself, that any leader holding a fortress for two years after a terrible battle would have long sent the women and children to safety, but Móriel, Vanimórë's mother, was captured when Sauron took the isle. Thus, in this AU, Celegorm and Curufin went to Orodreth's aid earlier than in canon.

**Author's Note:**

> The Age of Powers and Kings. Fourth Age map & named avatars.
> 
> Dark Prince AU map (template courtesy of MERP) showing kingdoms of the Fourth Age, plus named icons of the main characters. Double click. Very large image. (1457 x 968 pixels)
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: this story contains incest, violence, graphic sex, rape and torture.
> 
> Disclaimer: I merely borrow from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original characters of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, Elgalad Meluion, Tindómion Maglorion, Coldagnir the Balrog, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2011 and may not be used, archived or reproduced without my permission.
> 
> Note to readers.
> 
> Since writing this, and while continuing with Magnificat of the Damned, I realize of course that the Dark Prince series, being written first, does not refer to certain characters/events I introduced in this story and Magnificat.  
> Re-writing the Dark Prince series is not really in the offing. I wanted to complete a story arc and then be able to go back and *open it up*, flesh it out, and naturally that was going to show me some discrepancies when I go back and look at the Dark Prince books, because I really cannot remember everything I have written, especially if it is perhaps one line of conversation I wrote in 2008. I have tweaked (and will continue to edit) the discrepancies that I feel really require it, others I will leave as as a question mark to be addressed later.  
> The Dark Prince plot-line stands. Characters/events that appear in P&P and Magnificat will not be written in to the Dark Prince books II-IV. It's probably best just to think of those characters who are missing, as being *elsewhere* at the time. When I reach that timeline in the Power and Passion stories, I will write of the events that happened in Dark Lands, Dark Blood and Dark God from a different angle, to weave them in.


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